The Oppression of Which We Do Not Speak

They want me to become something I’m not.

I’ve twisted and turned and bent over backwards in an attempt to fit into their box,

But I simply cannot.

It’s never too late,

To pass your class they say.

But can they not see my face is buried into my books?

It’s never too late, they proceed,

To reconcile your relationship with your once best friend;

It merely depends on how much you’re willing to bleed.

But I’ve nearly bled out already.

It’s never too late, their harsh voices press,

To make yourself happy;

You’re the one not letting the sun in.

But my blinds are wide open I cry,

I cannot steal sunshine which is not there.

I stare at them,

Wondering if they have the slightest whim of the oppressive black that weighs on my shoulders,

As I keep twisting and turning in an attempt to contort my body,

So that I may finally fit into the box.

 But still I cannot.

It’s never too late they said,

But it was too late for me,

My mind in the devouring darkness of depression,

Too deeply set in what is and has been:

There was never a chance of redemption for me.