The hardest questions to ask are the ones to self.
So many levels of you, me, us, them, he, her, him.
How do you ask a question to “I”?
Do you know who I am?
Do I know who I am?
What’s more important?
What you know or what I know I am?
Nothing is worse than being a prisoner to the unconscious part of you.
To survive on impulse rather than sane, logical thinking.
To survive.
How do you do that with a corrupt mind?
How do you pick up the shattered pieces of broken promises and dreams?
How do you repair what they broke in you?
How do you get back what was stolen?
Innocence.
Virtue.
Pride.
Beauty.
Youth.
Respect.
How do you heal the scars?
Painful scars.
Wounds so deep they cut through flesh, muscle, bone- all the way to the soul.
Wounds hidden because of embarrassment.
You didn’t do this to you, they did.
But, you suffer because I suffered.
How unfair.
It just doesn’t seem right.
Did I suffer to get stronger?
Is that the way it works?
What a warped reality.
I would pray to be saved.
When it got worse, I prayed to die.
When it got worse, I stopped praying and then I just stopped feeling.
Numb to it all.
The equivalent to when you are sick and can’t taste, but you still eat.
I lived with a dead spirit, and I thrived.
I locked myself away and I didn’t emerge until years later.
Time flew by and now I stand in front of this mirror trying to figure out who and what I am.
The reflection still has no reply.
It just stares back and sobs silently.
