Many little murders.
Crows picking at my bones.
Self-sacrifices to higher powers,
martyr to an unworthy throne.
Changing every piece of me,
a little at a time.
To fit the fantasy you created
for me to walk alone.
Rebirth, death of the host.
Does that just make me a lost ghost?
Spectre in a spectrum of shifting worlds.
Where I am not me,
just a vague me-shaped
lump of plasticine.
A replacement duplicate.
A blank slate, to fill
with your rivers of self-hate.
Myriad slivers of what was me,
now just pieces of meat
to feed the beasts. Feast
I say on what was once me.
Feast, and choke on the tough skin
you tore free.
For now, I no longer feel the cut
of your blade sharp tongue, I no longer feel
the touch of your sharpened nails.
That pain has set sail.
Self-destruction, complete,
but is it true self destruction
If you
Have your hand on the trigger
and I'm begging and pleading
to cease the oncoming explosion.
But now I've shed that skin,
the timid shell I wore, it soaked in
every curse you swore.
Now instead I soar, I let myself be.
Because destroying the old,
only revealed the real me.
Thanks for reading
Please take a few moments
to check out my new book "Poetic Outlaw"
available from Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CVQ5F9K8/
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