The stitches holding
This skin
Together
Feel much too tight;
They ache,
And yet I am told
That it is better
To hurt
Than to fall apart.
I think
Those who tell me that
Have not lived
As I have,
Have not once tasted
The agony
Of being held
Too tightly.
Oft, I believe,
They are the ones
Doing the holding,
Well-intentioned but
Disillusioned,
Having a mistaken belief
Of what it is
To be whole.
Each stitch an 'improvement',
Nobody cares
For the fabric
Of my being,
Of what lies beneath
That repressive thread.
Aesthetics reign -
They tell me
How I must be;
Neat seams,
An unwavering smile -
I must be pliable, flexible,
To as much of an extent
As a 'person' can.
I must do
What the others do,
Even when I can't;
Even when it hurts.
They insist it is better
To hurt
Than to fall apart,
But this skin
Is made just
Of airs and graces,
Societal expectations,
An adherence
To their
Demands.
For it to give out,
For those stitches
To unfurl,
Would be the
Freeing of all
That is me.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
