Difference With Others

With every drop of blood on the floor, your name is impressed upon it. Every transparent step towards this yellow brick road, I find myself stuck inside this depraving story that you have pressed upon my heart. Every breath taking kiss, every simple frustrating scar you left upon my body, I am bent like the sword you left inside the brick wall behind the church house. Torn and withered, I am nothing but a stolen book to you. Reading my pages, trace my past, subside everything that is mine. Violate the breath I breathe with your odor that lingers so vile, it makes me want to ruminate the past, from my toes to ouside of my body. The sensation of euthanasia is what keeps my body flowing with the realization that I am stuck in this "life" you have pierced upon me. Needles pierce like thorns across my halo. This penetrating feeling like I can't be good enough no matter how hard I try. You try to form me into your clay object, Turning me into your ideal object, the one you can show off. To show that I am yours, your perfect art piece. Your object that you use and abuse because you know I will let you. I have been exposed, torn, and loved. I will not conform to your ways. I will not become your puppet anymore. I am this mountain that you see in the distance. I will not give up nor surrender. This is me. I am I. Goodbye, and Goodnight.