(written in July of 2014 a la exile)
It was the fourth step; distorted depth.
Hands held the head that wept.
We slept between the cold and mean
Existence that we swore we'd seen.
And that we swore we'd seen enough,
But eyes will close when faced with bluffs.
Encased in dust, the road was rough.
A tough and blinded bed of rust.
A bed of trust that turned to lust.
Of course, the coarse skin was enough.
And no remorse we ever felt
Could warn our torn and heavy selves
That knees held up arms that couldn't be helped.
Like shelves, they finally fell.
"Free Yourself", she'd often say,
But I had already turned away.
And faced the taste I'd set in stone.
She was exactly what I swore I'd own:
What I swore I wouldn't lose
If choosing was a gift to use.
And 'being' was a gift we got -
And so there we were. But now we're not.
She was the goblin princess, I was her crown and throne.
The 7 sisters warned me of the gift I couldn't own.
"You aren't aware and/or you haven't learned.
What makes you think you will not burn?"
I shrugged them off and dove right in,
But insecurity and misplaced priorities win.
So, now she's free. I'm trying to let her be.
I'll never be fine when I am but a memory.
It's in my blood...no, it's in my head.
A picture of perfection was a picture of us above my bed.
The moon still comes, I guess she's got a crush.
She baits and bade me to her touch.
She swears this strife is for the best.
I say, "That's trite", but still nod 'yes'.
She begs me to stay stuck and to let myself feel.
"Don't numb out the meaning - the grief is surreal."
I know that she's right, but it hurts to admit.
I'm proof that running will only remit.
Or, rather, it proves I'm a kid.