There's a wicked wind.
I turn my head and grimace.
'It's too windy out there,' I whisper,
And I shut the door
But I can't meet their eyes.
They ask where I'm going.
But I answer by pretending not to hear.
Hours turn into days, turn into weeks,
And I'm weak.
My soul frail, so when my words come out
it feels like ashes in my mouth...
This prison built for me
is entirely inhumane
And yet to be free seems all the more deadly.
I mean, if they can domesticate a wolf - it seems fortitude is lost.
With the captivity aching in my bones,
I'm not sure how far I can run-
before I become sick and afraid
With my viciousness, a broken machine,
I fail to trust-
because it tore my insides out when I was trying to love.
And I forgot how to play like a child,
Being left to my own devices,
And they forgot to ask how I'm doing,
And if it's safe to be alone in the darkness.
Yet I so easily become their inconvenience,
A shadow in their paradise.
And the scars
are harder to hide,
As they try to take me back outside.
Where the wind waits for me...
Sharp as knives.
It's so cold for me, can't they see?
but not as cold as the eyes of those who regard themselves most.
How laughable that I still regard them better than myself.
How frightening that I look for their affection-
A taste of someone else's paradise on the horizon
And I shiver everytime
Trying to look for soul in their eyes.
It seems too young, too soon
to realize such wicked things.