I Am An Antithesis

Too frequently do I wish someone would attain the amount of pluck necessary 

in order to solicit a dagger toward my chest,

subsequently engraving lacerations characterized by a depth so deep,

my soul would bear its deceitful face 

to the recognition of the saturated examiner who, 

in a bloody attempt to analyze my essence,

would unearth the wounds that disfigure the despairing heath observed.

If one accomplished such a feat 

while simultaneously sparing my lungs,

I would conjure my breath to reveal to them the concealed land of Acan

which does reside within me,

where the richest drink is cultivated from the nourishing sweetness within the soil of my soul,

and ivy stretches it's arms toward the giving sun I harbor. 

 

I would retrieve for my witness a flower from my own bit of earth,

drip sugar infested nectar upon their tongue

in which the confection pays itself,

while the discovery of that misleading face which disguises the construction of my being

would act as yet another form of reward;

and despite the gore that breeches my soul

and the craters dragging excessive portions of it down toward the abode of fire and brimstone,

there is a heavenly candle obscured within an auger hole 

whose burning wick emits an everlasting warmth,

spreading infinitely across that which does comprise me,

only beneath what announces itself at first glance.

I am not that which mars my soul.

 

I am an opposition to the presumed abuse you may perceive,

because regardless of the battered heath originally discerned,

there is a thriving garden someplace hidden;

you need only abolish it of the sanguinary burdens that mask its pure existence 

in order to unearth who I truly am. 

 

And I suppose the most effective way to express what characterizes me is to explain to you what does not:

I am not damaged,

but I have been. 

I am not insane,

though I have been denoted as such. 

I am not broken,

despite the shattered layers of my soul.

I am not inferior,

regardless of the blaring brutality I have encountered. 

I am not my pain,

even though I once allowed it to consume me. 

I am not bruised,

though my essence is tainted purple.

I am not evil,

despite having welcomed the devil into my hands on more than one account. 

I am more

than what you may believe you see. 

I go deeper than that first slaughtered tier of my being. 

 

I am whole.

I am level headed. 

I am in tact.

I am equivalent to those who surround me,

despite their complex consisting supremely of superiority.

I am my triumphs. 

I am healed. 

I am benevolent. 

 

I am antithetical to that which mars my soul. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Emilycortese

   

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741