Everything, every move I make is
part of a war between my body
and myself, a war against Time,
really I don’t know which side
I want to win

But it’s out of my hands now,
Or has it always been?

In therapy they tell you
that you’re always in control,
The voices only have the power
to suggest you take that blade
to your skin, or shove your
fingers down your throat,

But you, you’ve got the power to decide what your next move is,

I don’t believe that,
I don’t believe my body
is a kingdom under my rule

I believe that my body is
a vessel in which dark things
inhabit, control, destroy

my body is a
vacant motel that welcomes
strange men smelling of whiskey
to hole up in for the night and not
look at the wreckage they’ve left
behind in the morning,

because I’m not empty,
I’m just full of all the wrong things,
I’m just full of things that won’t stay
long enough to call me home.

- S.G.