Section of Dead Times and Poets

Anatomy of Balance

I wanted to tell you something,
something I've never told anyone.
But you—over the course of a year—
have changed so much.
And I... I built my own cave.
You helped me carve it.
A vision of what could have been
only deepened the pain, the shame, the scorn.

My life has lost its color.
I see it, but I cannot feel it.
I tasted ink beneath my skin,
and only then did my eyes open.
Golden letters now adorn my body.
They'll always be part of me.
As you are.

I don't know how to rid myself of you,
how to run from this.
What if I can't?
What if I'm cursed?
What if my cave collapses upon me
like the glass ceiling of your feelings?

Will you be sorry then?
Will you gather the shards,
or build me yet another cage
to keep me locked inside for years?
Will you throw them out with the trash?

If that is the condition,
if that is the price of your love,
then let me tell you this:

I've been practicing packing and escape.
I want to move on.
Tomorrow, I will leave you.
Will you leave me too? It doesn't matter.
I'm leaving you—or leaving my body.

I'll scream it out,
paint it on the wall.
You'll call me mad.
But I can bear no more pain.

I've told you things
I've never told a soul.
I'm packing now, reclaiming my balance.
Breaking with the Dead Times and Poets Section
you forced me into.

I'm leaving.