There's a wicked wind.

I turn my head and grimace.

'It's too windy out there,' I whisper,

And I shut the door

But I can't meet their eyes.

 

They ask where I'm going.

Nowhere.

But I answer by pretending not to hear.

Hours turn into days, turn into weeks,

And I'm weak.

My soul frail, so when my words come out 

it feels like ashes in my mouth...

 

This prison built for me

is entirely inhumane 

And yet to be free seems all the more deadly.

I mean, if they can domesticate a wolf - it seems fortitude is lost.

With the captivity aching in my bones,

I'm not sure how far I can run-

before I become sick and afraid

With my viciousness, a broken machine,

I fail to trust-

because it tore my insides out when I was trying to love.

 

And I forgot how to play like a child, 

Being left to my own devices,

And they forgot to ask how I'm doing,

And if it's safe to be alone in the darkness.

Yet I so easily become their inconvenience,

A shadow in their paradise.

 

And the scars 

are harder to hide,

As they try to take me back outside.

Where the wind waits for me...

Sharp as knives.

It's so cold for me, can't they see?

but not as cold as the eyes of those who regard themselves most.

How laughable that I still regard them better than myself.

How frightening that I look for their affection-

A taste of someone else's paradise on the horizon  

And I shiver everytime

Trying to look for soul in their eyes.

It seems too young, too soon

to realize such wicked things.