On The Inside
By bedazzled •
I'm a butterfly
unsure
it will be beautiful.
I'd rather stay in my
cocoon
with the memory of
a tangerine sting;
acidic colours
burnt
in my mind,
on my skin.
I'm lace
around the edges
of a puddle of mud.
I sit;
a dirty doll
in a playhouse
and I don't release
myself
from the cold metal
chains that bind me
like possessive kisses
against my wrists.
Escape is not
my dream
I suppose.
My hands are cold,
my nerves are numb,
I am in a paralysis
of thought
and I think I could learn
someday
to stop hating
myself
with these barbed-wire doubts,
these knife insecurities.
What I know
is that I love you
more than anything,
than everything
despite the clutter
in this limited space;
haphazard dust,
haphazard lies
which press my hands
around my throat.
It is not escape,
it is freedom.
It is
my right.
To live,
to love
without opposal
or nuclear bombs
but in the present
that isn't so.
Shadows nest
amongst my arteries
and I bleed
on the inside
now.