Why does the world see me this way?
My insides on the outside and nothing hidden at all,
when I am only flesh and bone and a map of veins?

Blood flows through me;
chilled at the core but sizzling in my fingertips.
What I touch will char, yet I cannot thaw myself.

Clearly, this is self-reliance.
I wake only to dream of sleeping again,
and breathe only to shut off my wandering thoughts.

My mother taught me to loathe the bitterness
that she herself pushed upon me throughout the years.
I will never forgive her for that.

But Lord (who?)  knows I've come this far.
I refuse to be silenced; it is my turn to speak.
Smother me with your glistening teeth: I will march on.