What am I but a soul,
Imprisoned by a shell of flesh,
With organs feasting on my fluids,
Operated solely by a wrinkled beast
At the top of the meat tower.

Have I a choice? Or am I bound
To this wrinkled beast’s desire,
Praying for the day that
The light will come calling
And the beast will die.

I am split down the seams
As I stomp through the battlefield
Of judgement and authenticity;
Looking for the place
Where it’s okay,
To love who I want,
And live unafraid.

Weeks spent battling inside,
Fumbling with words,
Looking for the right tone,
So you knew that you hurt
My soul, and the soul
Doesn’t recover so easily.

We sat down on the loveseat,
Pressed into the armrests,
And I found the right time
To speak my truth.
You listened with ears
On edge, ready to argue,
Never conceding an inch
So you could win.
And you won
Because you know
I won’t fight.

You walked away
with shoulders held high,
And a crooked smile on your face,
While I’m left alone to
Bottle everything up,
So it never comes out again.