A.P.

There's a voice inside my head. It's mine, I know, But I'd much rather pretend otherwise. I'd much rather someone knows my thoughts, knows me, But it's daunting to say what I'm thinking out loud.

I speak to the voice inside my head. I argue with it, I replay conversations with it hours after they're done. I go back and forth with it, perfecting a response I'll never give, Thinking something I'll never say, while everyone around me moves on.

I hate the voice inside my head. It's a poor substitute for the people I wish heard me instead, For the arguments I wish were real, if only I spoke up. I don't know why my courage fails me then, when I need it most, But the silence is stifling.

There's a voice inside my head. It's mine, I know, But I'd much rather pretend otherwise. I'd much rather it be someone else’s thoughts, someone else’s screams, But the walls close in on me every time I try to push the noise away.

I speak to the voice inside my head. I argue with it, I replay conversations with it hours after they're done. I go back and forth with it, perfecting a response I'll never give, Thinking something I'll never say, while everyone around me moves on.

I hate the voice inside my head. It's a poor substitute for the people I wish heard me instead, For the arguments I wish were real, if only I spoke up. I don't know why my courage fails me then, when I need it most (The silence is stifling)

I love the voice inside my head. It's loud like people are, It even annoys me like people do, But there's comfort in that company. There's comfort in having my shadows cast into the light, even if it's not real.

Never let your emotions undermine your composure, Never let them diminish your worth. Sensitivity makes you weak, they say, And passion just makes you seem—desperate. Neither, surely, will bring you power, bring you respect.

It's reciprocity that they want, not revenge. It’s not feckless anger, nor reckless action, Not indignation, but a cold calculation, One that seeps into your bones, But never the darkest corners of your mind.

It may seem Machiavellian, This need to be strong, to be stoic, But it's better when the alternative is fire. It's better than that feeling of rage, of wrath, Of knowing how close you are to losing control.

It’s better to nod, dutiful as ever, and not let the hurt linger. It's better to temper yourself, to compromise, To run it through your mind once, and then once more, To know without a doubt that you won't go too far, To make sure no one ever sees the cracks.

In the end, though, The cracks are all you have– It may seem safer to play along, Erecting a wall no one can bring down, But that’s not how this world works.

It traps you In the cold embrace of security, In a cage so gilded you never see it coming. And when it does? You are ruined.

You do everything possible To stop it, to work past it, But your penchant for expression And the relief it brings Mocks you.

It rears its head, Inconvenient as always, Whispering that damning truth You hate to acknowledge– You are ruined.

And so you fight, Never faltering once. Or perhaps you do, just once, Unable to seal your heart– Your will, your very soul.

If one is neither coming nor going, Neither here nor there, Where does the future lie? In someone else's hands, of course.

Is it worth it, to give up that control? Is it worth it, to cower behind a body, an excuse? Is it worth it, to grow meek but resentful? Is it worth it, to always have someone else to blame?

There was a fire behind those eyes, A fire that burned bright. It dimmed for no one, But sparked for even less.

That fire is gone today, As lost as the past, as lost as the future. It sinks into the silence, As lost as a person long forgotten.

Where does the future lie, If not in our own ambitions? When a question goes unasked, Do we really expect an answer?

The fire is gone today, But it can come back. It can become a blazing inferno once more, Teetering on the edge of brilliance.

If one is neither coming nor going, Neither here nor there, Where does the future lie? In someone else's hands, of course. I am a victim of my circumstance, A casualty of wars fought far beyond my borders. I am Sisyphus, doomed to repeat this endless cycle, Simply surviving until I can push those boulders no longer.

Is it worth giving up that control? Is it okay to cower Behind a body, an excuse? Is it not pitiful, growing  Meek and resentful? Is it not cowardly, always Having someone else to blame? It isn’t, I find–

When the shattered remains Of a broken future Are all I have To show for my obstinacy. It isn’t worth it, I know,  When my spirit wavers, As easily doused  As an already flickering candle.

There was a fire behind those eyes, A fire that burned bright. It dimmed for no one, bent for no one, But sparked for even less, steady in its strength. That fire is gone today, As lost as the past, as bleak as the future. It sinks into the silence, As lost as a person long forgotten.

Where does the future lie, If not in our own ambitions? When a question goes unasked, How can we expect an answer? The fire is gone today, But it can come back. It can become a blazing inferno once more, Teetering on the edge of brilliance.

It does not matter, I realise now, Whether my success is the filling of a pail, Or the lighting of a fire that may die out at any minute; I temper my greatness in the flames of my failures all the same. I work at it, night and day and through the pain, Never resting until my metal is a weapon I have honed. I sharpen my steel, my daggers drawn, Until I become the blade, forging a new path to walk on.

I am not a victim now, not a helpless soul, I am not a martyr, nor do I wish to be. I see the wounds I caused, The burns they never let me see– Perhaps they did, I suppose I wouldn’t know, But I’m better now, I think… I know my enemy, I know it’s me, I’ve shed my doubt, and now I’ll know my victory.