The image of my soul is bone rattling. The image of my soul is every ugly word you can think of, and yet it's every beautiful word you can think of. But we always focus on the ugly parts, the parts that are so horrifying they tell you to look away but you just can't. And why? Why do we let the bad outweigh the good? Shouldn't we look at that dessert and see the flowers that bloom and the plants that thrive off of it? Not the cracked surface or the evil tricks it plays with our sight. Those flowers are there for a reason, they're growing strong for our eyes.
I've already shackled myself to the chains of those shadows. I am stuck in limbo, scratching my regrets over and over on the walls around me with my bleeding fingernails. Soon enough they will turn into scars. Everything for me turns into scars. And I'm foolish for hiding, for thinking it will all disappear. I need to step out in the open, let the targets land on me because you can't hurt someone with black holes for a heart. I'll take the bullet to the head, let my jagged ribs become thorns from a wilting flower. I'll do whatever I have to so you never engrave that image of me in your brain. I don't want your eyes of horror and pity morphed into one. I won't let them scan me up and down, only seeing a cracked surface and bleeding lips. I think of you and bite my lip, I can't let you be a martyr from the wars inside my chest, even though every part of me considers is honorable to die trying. No, that's my destiny. But what if I'm terrified?
My wrinkled heart can't handle strong hands. So let me breakdown. Allow me to collapse into my black holes.