I'm not perfect.
There's a cry for help
that only the city lights hear -
barely flickering in response.
I go deeper in

the labyrinth I've built for myself.
I manage to get lost and
find comfort and pain
(at least I can feel pain),
in knowing no one can find me.
But even that does not last long

when hating yourself
is the only thing you know of.

When will the knife slip,
when will your feet trip -

into myself,
into my freedom?

Whose freedom
are we fighting for,
if we don't even know
who we are?