You molded me, I am a shell of you.
A tattoo-everything I do branded by your judgements,
by the memory of you.
I scratch at it, this etching, this unremovable mark.
My endless attempts to remove it, to burn it off or tear it away from my skin.
A fear possesses me however-
if I finally pull your mark away, your stitching in my skin,
that the thread will keep pulling; a clown pulling handkerchiefs out his sleeve,
some sick joke.
This seemingly small part of me will continue to fall away,
nothing left but a pile of skin
that you had previously molded into a human.