This is where I lie. Between my mistakes and the damage that I have done to myself. Damage. What you call destructive I call acts of self proclamation. To claim myself. To say this is me and this is what I can do to myself. The pain in which you threaten to thrust upon my broken body is much more tempting than that which I have branded upon myself. This is where I lie. Left to my vices. Left to remember the person that I used to be. Ingenue. When things were so simple and my problems made the world seem better. Seem kinder. When every cry was solved by a whisper in my ear and now the only whispers in my ear are condemned to a label brought upon by society as harmful. As dangerous. And I have to breathe the way they want and talk the way they want or else my problems shall exist on the outside while I stay sheltered by these walls. Here. This is where I lie. To get better. To be a product of my society in a way that makes everyone else happy but I cry out in pain as gravity pulls me down to become its victim because the floor is where my thoughts lie. To the point in which my heart has now become burdened with the thoughts of freedom. Gratis. Libre. This is where I lie. And alas when my days come to an end this mirror will break in fear of the power of a new person staring back at it and thus begins the psychedelic reconstruction of me. Here. Where I begin: pusillanimous, not able to create ideas that will set me free. But I do not create those ideas in which that destroy me. This oven does not welcome me to stick my head in in desperation for freedom from my mind. This is where lie. Here. I am unsure of what that means. But this is where I lie. Here.
