Contemplations of a Disturbed Soul

I

Her Voice-

I am.

Inchoate, to be destroyed when I'm pure-

By your callous heart-

Which beats with annoyance at my voice.

Don't I have a soul? Am I to be burnished-

By your pride?

Or destroyed by this pain of mine?

It hurts me.

The rains are little pieces of glass-

That you cracked and scattered all over me.

I bleed.

From so many wounds that you foster on me.

You're the Devil I love

You're the God I loathe.

To you, am I a blank page-

On which you vent out your furies?

For you, am I alive?

Or a mere corpse hanging from your sky?

To you, am I?

Am I?

His voice-

Am I?

Breathing, to be alive when I'm frightened-

For your subdued soul-

Which shrinks in agony at my cry.

Am I not to love? Am I to be a stranger-

To your mind?

Or a wanderer in this pain of yours?

It hurts me.

The rains are little pieces of your heart-

That you enshroud and stow away from me.

I can't bleed.

For you make my wounds yours to be.

You're the Devil I can't loathe.

You're the God I can't love.

To you, I am a filled page.

You don't say a word to me.

For you, I am dead.

You treat me like the corpse rotting in your earth.

For you, I am.

I am.