May 25, 2001

  • Dying in the Open

    When does joy turn to unbearable pain,
    And the pleasant light become blinding?
    When does seeking the blessed darkness
    Become a more logical choice
    Than suffering in the open?

    When you notice the blood that first time,
    Your clothes wet, a red trail behind you,
    Stretching back farther than you can see
    With no sign of a physical cause,
    Only the ache of memory.

    Was it worth fitting into the mold,
    Worth reshaping yourself for them,
    Worth slicing off tiny bits of self,
    Dying slowly, small piece by piece,
    To fit the world you were born to?

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