Sometimes I think I’m good with words

Sometimes I firmly believe that everything I’ve ever
muttered
has been so meaningless that it causes someone pain

All my life I’ve been afraid that I’d caused more hurt than
good,
Just to find the same people I had blind faith in
Have been using my body and mind for their selfish goals

I was a good marionette
My body is a good body, endures good pain
it remained dull, insensitive despite everything.

As a result of everything.

Looking at all my past poems, blindly in love,
A dog of my masters,
who taught me how best to take care of them,  

I believe I had more potential than Cinderella,
I wish I hadn’t been at that bar, alone
I wish daddy could love,
I wish I hadn’t been attracted to heavy, lead words
launched towards my fragile ego.

I wish I could go back and **** that one year old girl.
I wish, when I was in first grade, and they called me
“Bald” for the first time, that
I had worn my scars with pride.

“Scars are signs of warriors” I said with arrogance
Whilst I pulled my bangs forwards,
So that despite my words, nobody would know.

“Scars are signs of warriors”, I say,
and maybe it’s  just comfort, or perhaps,

I look for reasons to believe I’ll bear through this.