My shackles are my thoughts, my over-ambitious dreams.
My shackles are the voices in my head, taunting me, threatening me.
My shackles are the moments where I stay silent when I should have spoken.
My shackles are the choices I made that still relentlessly haunt me.
My shackles are the ideas that never turned to action, actions that could have changed my life.
My shackles cover me entirely and weigh me down.
My shackles speak to me, sometimes they even listen to my pleas.
My shackles have moulded me.
My shackles control me.
My shackles complete me.

I can handle being a freak.
I can handle being a loser.

I can handle the name-calling.
I can handle my emotions.

I can handle not being able to fit into just one box.
I can handle placing last.

I can handle being rejected.
I can handle being used.

I can handle my anger.
I can handle my future.

I have a firm grasp on almost everything and that makes me feel stronger, but I won't handle being a vitcim any longer.

The scars that cover my body, mind and soul.

The feeling of abandonment and lonliness.

The constant fear that plauges my entire existance.

The raw sting of rejection, judgement and betrayl.

The shattered fragments of my confidence and joy.

My interior that is bruised and battered from  fighting the battles inside.

The taste of unspoken words in my mouth that remain there, ever stagnant.

The hollowness of my stone-walled heart.

The steady stream of regrets that fill my veins.

With all these reminders, will I ever be allowed to forget?

When will you be done replacing moments of joy with moments of regret?

When will you be done making me feel that I will never be good enough?

When will you be done toying with my emotions, my feelings and my choices?

When will you be done shutting people out that I need and drawing in the people I don't?

When will you be done making me feel powerless, weak and alone?

When will you be done forcing me to constrict my emotions beneath my skin to keep up the facade that I am unbreakable?

When will you be done doubting me, doubting my dreams and doubting my beliefs?

When will you give me a chance to fight back, to throw a punch to defend myself from the constant, steady stream of judgement?

When will you stop making me bitter and numb so I can become a person with hope and happiness?

When will you ever stop taking and start giving?
Will the looting of my serendipity ever stop?

Is it enough that you stole all of the best parts of me and left only the scarred and broken parts behind?

My insecurities are in control and insatiable.

Will it ever be enough?

I am a wall. No gates for entry and no back door to slip in through.

I am a wall. Bricks made from insecurities and cement made from the brutal judgement I face everday.

I am a wall. My exterior remains the calm, collected and unpanicked even when my intetior collapses upon itself.

I am a wall. Love slips through the pores in the bricks making me wear my heart on my sleeve, much to my despair.

I am a wall. When people treat me poorly and insult me, I let it run off my weather-proof walls.

I am a wall, but even walls crack sometimes.

That I'll never feel again, that the numbness I've enbalmed myself in might never wash off.

That I'll never find a place where I belong, that I'll always be an outcast, an outlier.

That I'm too different, that people will never be able to accept both me and my endless flaws.

That I'll never extinguish the fire of bitterness and regret that burns endlessly in my hardened heart.

That I'll never be articulate again, that one day my witty words will fail me and my blundering words will completely take over.

That I'll never feel confidence, that I'll never be able to look past my exterior, my vessel.

That I'll never feel the warm light of affection and love, that the clouds of poisonous lonliness will consume me with fatal lesions that seep out scorn and desperation.

That I'll never be able to forgive, that I'll never be able to forget. That my decisions will haunt my psyche forever, ever present.

That I'll always be mediocre, that I'll always settle.

That I'll always be misunderstood and mistreated. That I'll never be some-ones perfect fit.

That I'll always hide behind cynisim and sarcasm. That my sharp blunt words will come back to tear at me.

That I'll always be this way.

I'm worried that life has broken me in ways that are irrepairable.

I'm worried that I will remain this way. Damaged, insecure and broken.

Yes, wounds tend to heal. But what happens when you are ruined inside and out?

Not in a dramatic way, in an honest way. Visable scars cover me.

I'm worried that the marks, ****** cuts and scabbing blemishes will be my albatross and that it will consume me.

I'm worried.

For happiness to find me, because my feet are raw from running from my feelings and I'm to tired to search for it.

For every-one to realize that I am a person, not a crutch or a punching bag or a doormat.

For the numbness to drain out of my body, so I can feel again. So I can breathe again. So I can live again.

For the lies I use as morphine to wear off, so my addiction to this narcotic can stop.

For the well-concealed tears to stop, so my puffy eyes can feel the coolness of kindness, finally.

For love to crawl its way into my spirit and for depression to fly out.

For lonliness to be replaced with friendship and for bitterness to be replaced with optimism.

For my soul to be free, for my brain to be clear and my body to be accepted.

I'm waiting, perhaps, in vain.