To Whom It May Concern

Soul

I am very young,
Though I feel so old.
Not in a physical sense,
But in my soul.
My souls is an ancient,
Aging,
All compassing thing.
It is frail and old,
But longs for things it knows it cannot have.
It wants so deeply,
For love,
For hope,
For freedom,
For adventure,
For purpose.
It aches for these concepts so much my heart collapses with the weight of it all.
It is crushed by the strength of these wishes.
My soul does not understand that my heart is as young as my body,
But it is not whole.
It is empty,
Carved out by the hands of a devil in a man's skin.
It is broken,
Shattered by the words of a devil in a woman's skin.
It is undesirable,
Rotten by the thoughts of a poisoned mind with the capacity to hurt,
To break,
To kill.
My heart is not strong enough to withstand all these powerful dreams my soul desires,
So I let them crush me.
Let them overwhelm me,
Overtake me,
Destroy me.
Bit by bit.
First my heart,
Then my mind,
Then my skeleton frame.
Because why spend my days satisfying a want so intense that I know that it will never be tamed?
I do not want to be Icarus,
I must not fly to close to the sun.
So I'll let the longing ebb against my heart,
So potent it's tangible.
And it attempts to fill my broken, Devastated,
Useless heart.
It's like filling a bucket with a large hole in the bottom,
Pointless,
Wasteful,
Worthless.
But at least there's almost something filling the gaping hole in my chest.