an ogre is like an onion
(meaning if you cut me, you'd probably cry
which is probably why i don't worry about being mugged)
because this ogre has layers

and sometimes i can't tell which one is on top.
it takes a moment sometimes to figure out if i'm working my way
down, to the crisp, clear head that i need to feel happy,
or up, building up my flaky shield with lies and acting and moody broody moping.

i shed enough layers in a night to feed a few starving children.
so why does it feel like i never know where i am?
i hold my balance like i'm dancing on the edge of the knife,
hoping that through moving forward
i'll figure something out
and that things will figure themselves out for me.

but how much longer can i spin metaphors and feel sorry for myself
(scribbling words into a notebook only past midnight)
before i split in half on the end of the blade?

i can only hope someone will be there to pick up the pieces.