We learned from a young age not to touch the stove when it’s hot, but these days I tend to hurt myself a lot. What am I supposed to do when the pain’s inside? There’s nowhere I can run and hide when the battle I fight is against myself.
The blood of my enemies runs through my own veins; how do I stop myself—how do I take the reins?
In myself I’d like to find a friend, but my heart and my head won’t make amends, so I’m left tearing my skin apart to ask them why they leave words of agreement left unspoken when God knows all I need is for them to agree and put me out of this anxious misery, this crave for love left unfulfilled, the only kisses from my kindergarten scissors—once cut patterns into paper now carve patterns into skin.
I need airholes in my veins to let the pain breathe, to let it seep out when I’m in most desperate need of a sky-blue mind—gusts of wind to chase the dark clouds to a prison of the infinite kind, where they will never rain over me again.
Why didn’t I learn the lessons about pain, how inflicting it upon myself is arguably insane? I don’t want these scars to show.
I touched the stove when I was a child, but some fire must have entered me—a fire fierce and wild. It burns through my skin and ignites my heart, no this is not the end, this is the start. I’ve still got my passion, my paper, my pen—this is my battle, and badly is not how it will end.