🩸

We all have wounds.
Not all of them
show blood
trickling on the skin
those are the lesser ones.

The body heals.
Scabs form.
Scars fade.

But some wounds
bleed a different kind of red
silent,
invisible,
constant.

They live beneath smiles,
hide behind handshakes,
and echo
in quiet rooms.

No bandage fits them.
No doctor sees them.
And yet,
they shape us more
than any knife ever could.

Hey you there

It's not just me in here
Oh how I wish you could hear the coconspirator
Or see in a single tear how loud the fear of fear truly can be
And how I'm so rarely allowed to steer

I AM a dark passenger, MY dark passenger
A near prison like constricting atmosphere with no breathing apparatus gear
Life can be so impossibly cavalier
Death is always closer than it should ever appear, regardless of the mirror

In my story I have the glory of a lone fourth musketeer
With a crowded asylum between each ear
So many questions but not a single agreed upon answer will appear
And I've yet to meet this so called infallible puppeteer

Though the hierarchy is clear, it passes through an auctioneer
"Punish thee if thy finds I should ever veer from thy holy 'engineer'"
Hell, they can stay put like a headlight frozen deer
I'd rather be allowed to be the one to disappear

I did not ask to be here

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