Swords, ready to stab, ready to dab their vicious points into my joints, are waiting. I'm anticipating their pain; I'm not insane! I'm aware of their presence and their lack of pleasance.
I'm reminded of what I've already endured, I've been lured, and I'm almost cured. My mind's already heard the threat into my brain, burned.
Now I'm in bed, resting; I'm nesting. My parts, they're coalescing. I'm tired of this molesting! What, is that too much jesting?
Stop the bother, mother, father, lover. This stress presses, but not onto my chest. I'm the one sitting atop it, I'm the one who chose to stop it.
My lids are leaded with the weight of the trauma, but you're the drama, Mama. Papa: Soul Stopper, Childhood Chopper.
Angry, jealous lover. Secrets undercover.
There's strength in being still. I still. I still have my free will.
Snakes in the grass are easier to see from above I can see if they have love, and if that love will last.
But, snakes that are waiting, venom almost penetrating, confuse me with their dichotomy, climbing into my safe tree as they sleep next to me.
My safety is I no longer believe in this fake family you dangle in front of me.
But, I do see. Do you see? I'm the escapee. You can't swallow me. This, I can guarantee. For right now, I'm carefree...
