There came a point in my life where I had to choose to wake up or continue to sleepwalk,

My heart is filled with rage, my lungs filled with air,

So how do I explain that I cannot breathe?

I am standing here now, this has taken many miles,

Apart from the sleepless nights it has taken many years to stand here today.

 

What others see is a person who is well put together as if I were a sturdy bookcase, each book filed with colors, and you can find me in alphabetical order.

What others see is undeniable beauty, with each strand of hair it looks perfect, like it was made to look that way.

What others see is confidence, busy with dutiful tasks,

What they are incapable of seeing are the pieces I have gathered and collected, I have made them mine, kept them safe inside my trinkets, I have aired them out, fluffed the dust out of the window, so that the rags can be sewn delicately and made new.

 

You do not see the fear of which I have run, the sweat trickles down like blood inside unfamiliar places and the work I have done,

So that you do not see.

You do not see me.

 

I have blinded myself from pain, for which pain would eat me alive and have me serve my own platter.

I am not afraid of sadness, but sadness is the ruin of me.

I belonged to it before I had even understood the concept of him.

As if he were an umbrella and I have carried him, though he has covered nothing for me.

I have seen glimpses of rainbows, then he quickly slaps his cloth into my face.

Now I am drenched, and I fear I might drown.

 

My arms tired of carrying his weight, although I have trashed him somewhere forgotten, he has cloaked himself onto my skin.

My mind traces back to where I might have picked up this umbrella, but I was so young.

I am filled with fog.

Distant memories keep me awake at night.

Puddles of rain trace back to the bed,

When I wake up in the morning, I am frightened for who accompanies me.

The roof is leaking drips on my boots,

My heart is screaming music to which there is not a dial to turn it down.

 

I am alone in these four walls, and I swear they are banging.

Finally, I am charged with courage,

That is how I have come to realize the footsteps were mine.

 

Nothing makes sense.

 

The angels on my shoulder, urging me to go, to get out, to leave this place at once.

I am tired,

I am confused,

I am filled with knowledge,

But I have nothing.

 

There is sadness inside of me,

I wish I had tools,

I wish I had a clue.

 

Where does the rope inside of myself start?

I am screaming at the silent walls that I swear screams back.

I need to grasp this rope and pull it out of my throat.

Sadness does not want to leave; it wants to play.

So, he does play.

I am haunted with shadows and noises and thumps in my chest,

“Go away!!!” I scream.

But a part of myself begs for more.

 

I enjoy speaking to sadness because he tells me lies and I hear from no one.

I am entering new rooms now, but I still feel the shift.

 

Hungry eyes are waiting on me.

 

I am digging for a pair of scissors so that I can cut this rope and be done with it,

Although something stops me,

Something warns me,

If I cut this rope, it will not be the end of it,

It will be the end of me.

 

Sadness enjoys my company, and it isn’t because I am sad person, quite the opposite actually.

It is because people around me are sad, they welcome him in, they bring jealousy.

The people around me are cruel,

Almost without a soul.

 

I am filled with every bit of soul, I have passion between my fingertips, I feel the wind and I hear her power, I love more than it is capable it is to love, and sadness enjoys my energy, as if I were a strip of power cords myself.

I have been blessed in life and the jealous people wish upon me to be unlucky,

And so, I have.

 

How can I run?

I must find out how.

I can smell the air stiffen,

My ears are crowded with creaks as the floors crack inside of places that the angels overhead forbidden not to cross.

I must be careful now, for all will be lost.

 

Sadness enjoys me and for too long, I have enjoyed him.

 

I do not know where to go, if going means walking into a home without blackness dripping off the roofs like vines that spread as they grow,

I do not know where to go if something has not already resided this property for decades before me.

I am being watched, as I sweep the doorstep before I enter the new home.

I do not know where to go if sadness is not standing beside myself as my companion.

 

The rags I have sewn and kept safe from the dust will be my disguise as I break for it at midnight.

I have packed a light suitcase so that he may not know what I am doing

He will not catch on.

Subtle changes have spooked him, but he has always been quicker.

 

 

I have said goodbye so long ago, but it feels as if it were the first time.

I have gathered my friends and my weapons,

I hid underneath the rags,

It does not recognize me now.

 

My heart is racing, and I remind myself to calm down, so that he may not sniff me out,

And enter once more.

Morning has risen over the grassy hills, the roosters crow,

Coffee pots are pouring into mugs,

Doorbell shops are dinging

And the little children are stuffing their bellies with flapjack pancakes,

But I am consumed with rage.

Kicking boxes and slamming lamps into the floor,

I can still feel him,

He does not want to let me go.

 

I have secured myself and locked my doors, for I know he paces back and forth onto each doormat, to see if this is where he belongs.

I have masked myself within the crowd, and I have joined them so that it will be harder to seek me.

He does not hunt in the daylight,

And my walls are covered with clean cloth.

I have escaped a living hell,

I’ve seen hell,

I was inside of it,

And I did not belong to it.

The pits rise with hotter flames than ever before,

Anger has taken place underway because they have lost something very valuable to them.

He is pondering ways to get me back,

But you must find me first.

 

Others do not see me when their eyes meet my gaze.

Others do not see how I am pieced together,

They do not see me.

But I am here, and their vision is enough.

I am content and I am at peace with myself as half seen.

This is where I choose to be, masked in front of the people, so that you do not see.

You do not see me.

 

Farewell to the monsters,

Who sleep in my bed.

 

-Micah Vincent

Info@splashes-of-love.com