The angularity of my personality,
The sharp corners of my heart
That poke and prod the rest of me.
The voice of Plath that whispers
And confides its darkest desires
While I close my eyes against
The shadows and etchings
Of lifeless plaster.
This is me I am told.
I hold my breath recklessly,
Until I can feel my essence,
Slipping soundlessly into
The fourth dimension which is
Only several rooms away from me.
When the sky is grey
the lid of my box,
Is shut and sealed,
All the while I consume myself,
Over and over again
To the audience of darkness.
In the light, I wrap myself in gossamer,
And glisten loudly in the sun,
With the light bouncing off of me
In silvers and reds.
And the treetops
Notice my temporary freedom,
And my false effervescence.
The world, not the people
Hears the skips of my heartbeat,
While my pulse is reserved for me alone.
I am. I am. I am.
It tells me over and over
Until I doubt it's existence.
Hearts don't beat.
They drum lies to their owners.
I've been lied to I tell myself.
I lie to me.