I am plummeting, an Icarus without sacred plumage,
nor the beauty of a soft dusting of undergrowth,
to break my fall.
Each time I rise, I am a phoenix,
but even phoenixes will finally die.
Being engulfed in agony, where I seek shelter,
and comfort, and safety,
and learn to decorate pain, like A.W. Toad suggests.
Each time only makes it harder to return. To sanity.
To distorted sanctitude, yet perfectly perceived control.
While in the dark recesses of my mind, the gremlins call,
trembling as I quiver with anxiety,
highly strung, unlike an arrow,
in everything but form.
For I may appear thin, but she tells me I am fat.
I am tense, but not strong.
For this is a land of skin and bones,
where sticks and stones and everything breaks me,
and I do not belong.
That space between a venn diagram where only I exist.
Too fat for one circle, too thin for the other.
The thing about binaries, is eventually you’ll be shattered in two.
Still, I swallow saccharine words and bittersweet pills,
without knowing what purpose they serve.