It often feels as though I was never meant
To be the man that I have stubbornly become;

It often seems more likely that at one time,
During my checkered past,
I laid in wait in the foliage,
Sprung a makeshift trap,
Subdued one of my pursuers,

And assumed their identity

It would be one of the few logical explanations
For why I consistently sabotage my own path;

Retreating to my sanctuary,
Setting up tripwires around every corner,
Poisoning my sole water source,
Setting up sensors around my heart,
Camouflaging the exposed crimson,

And stalling for time that I no longer own