The night I convinced myself
I was tied with ropes
to the demands of others,
and I could only
cut myself free,
was the night that began
                           the free fall
                               of my own perpetual
                                   freedom.
     When I realized I could
do anything I wanted
behind closed doors
because there was absolutely
no way anybody could restrain me.
Unfortunately, as the world
sometimes decides,
the things that made me happy
were the things that made others upset, uncomfortable,
disgruntled them
because they could not see
the beauty I did
in a collection of scars
the storybook on my body
in the smoke rising from my lips.
The things that made me free
also, are killing me.
But no one can seem to see
the absolute romanticism
in the control of my own death,
                                           freedom.