i pour all that is left of me into poetry
until i become too much for words to bear,
too much for my therapist to endure,
and too damaged for medications to repair.

so, i metamorphose into an artist
to reach for my 6B graphite pencil,
and let my storming rage of agony and anger
crawl across the pages
towards those who promised to keep me safe and sound,
only to leave me trembling in fear on the ground;
towards those who offered reassurance i never asked for,
only to walk out of my life and say that i was just being unreasonable;
and towards those i welcomed into my life,
only to have them slam the door in my face again and again
.
once i have sketched out my fiends,
clawing at the child in me i could not fight for,
all i could do was scream in silence
as i helplessly watched them take her childhood away from her.

i've metamorphosed, not into an artist,
but into someone filled with so much wrath and doubt.

i wonder if i will i ever look at myself in the mirror
without screaming at the sight of the hidden scars
across my face and body.

and i wonder if i will ever taste the kind of love
that is built, not on power as a means of possession, or merely to satisfy oneself, but on compassion, acceptance, and mutual respect.

@boonthemoonluv