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.

Time skips by me,
laughing playfully
imitating the youth of a child.

The child runs to a distant voice,
it’s iridescent like nature
slowly fading away.
Left with a lament for it to come back again,
To skip around the fields of tulips
as they continue to blossom.
The child stops to reassure me:
‘The tulips will not blossom if I stay’.

The child speaks true,
as the tulips grow, so do you.

Some days
in the dead of night
I write such beautiful words in my mind;
the rhetoric coming ever so naturally,
weaving into art.
But on these days,
I feel too tired to write it down,
to transcribe my thoughts into existence,
as this would make them exist
and if something exists
it is almost too real for me to bare.