To be honest, I’m not quite sure where you’re going with this.
That first thought bubble that comes out of your mouth reeks
Of disdain at what I do to ease the itch beneath my skin.
The next bubble pops with a sickly sweet essence
Of wanting me safe
Warm
Protected, from myself and from everyone else.
I’ve never read a better cyclical ending than the one I live in.
You cause what you disapprove.
Naivety took my hand and told me that the hole you were digging
Was for you.
Not for me.
Childhood innocence lies just as well as the rest of us.
The rest of us lie as well as her, but that’s a different poem
For a different day.
I reside in a sea of hate,
In a gulf of hypocrisy.
How can one not take these things
And use them against one’s self?
Marvel
At how easy it is to use your words as a fragment of blade.
Be astounded
At how hard it is turn that fragment of blade
Into silk sheets that I would bunch up beneath my head.
Be amazed
At how many other people
Just like you
Scorn at people
Just like me.
One more “the cat scratched me.”
Another “ran into a nail”
And I may just shed my skin
And wear my scars as a cloak of jagged pink fabric.
I will wear said cloak with something akin to irony,
And you will see that the thread holding the pink patches together
Is the thread you wove from your own pursed lips.