Thoughts: Filled with darkness.

Not perfection, of course. Troubled.

Her tired literature shows the tale she dare not speak
It has grown from a trickle of thoughts
Into a torrent of truths
What she hoped would be a distraction;
Has merely become herself
Her fears follow her beyond the boundaries of her mind.
Within this reality,
They hold no power,
Yet within herself they govern all
Everything she could and will be,
Everything she wished she was; washed away
Due to those in control
Decisions are not allowed to be her strong point,
Lest she harm herself.
There was a point where she felt
The need for self preservation,
But it seems that concept is lost upon her now.
As she flings herself from rooftops,
And drowns herself in misery,
She realises these are the emotions she once yearned to feel
Yet along with her preservation,
Her self respect also seems to have flown.
Far from this place she calls home,
She walks along the road
That leads to her abuser
And she dreads and yet anticipates
What will occur.
The blows shatter her core,
They break her weakened bones.
Every time she emerges
It is with a new mark:
Of possession.
She wears it because she must
Though she wishes it was something
More beautiful,
Like those self-inflicted scars,
That used to bloom beneath her fragility,
Crisscrossing the pale burden of her landscape.
Though they now fade away
Their implantation is still bestowed within her
She wears them not because she must
But because she can.
Possession cannot take these away,
No matter what technique they try.
Flames lick but taint not this canvas
Skeletal birds of death beat her with their wings,
Yet they remain white and red gaping with a desire to be fed.
She walks from her possessor with freedom
Taught beneath her cracked skin,
Belts hold nothing to her spark
They let her keep the candle:
Within herself it resides,
For safe keeping.
Every so often she takes the light out
To study it's undying belief,
They do not see the strength it doth lend,
But notice their blows landing on an already beaten body.
Her shoulders hang heavy with the weight
But she carries it on forever.
And always will
In the knowledge that deep within her,
There will always be a light
One that nobody can steal
And she shall covet it.

Reviews

[_mal]

'Crisscrossing the pale burden of her landscape.'
I love this, the depths you've explored here

[Jo]

"tired literature" is perfect.

[Ed Hart]

i'm hoping these are no longer current events, and that the catharsis of realization is working its magic