I still feel the throwing knives cut my Papier-Mache mind
As I create collages from the remains of my colorful memories.
Memories that have made me, but also eat away at my mind
Like camel crickets eating my clothes.
The holes almost unnoticeable unless you study me.
The bullets hit my beat-up armor bashing me,
The used ragdoll left in tatters,
Leaving black, blue, and green watercolor tattoos on my porcelain skin that only I can see
As I feel shame as a fragile doll, not the machine gun that I pretend to be.
The water fills my lungs as I continue surviving with five-second breaths,
As I pray for the black feather pillow softness of blackout,
But no, I am too stubborn to let go and ease into the darkness.
I’ve gotten too good at surviving, but not living.
Pushing the snowball up the mountain as it transforms into a lead boulder,
But still I don’t stop and give up,
Letting the boulder crush me, cracking my bones,
Smashing my rotten heart.
No, the blood in my veins pump
And my muscles cry out for relief that I won’t give.
My being deteriorates,
A zombie in disguise that won’t die.
No failure, no living, only surviving until nothing is left, but dust.
Such is life filled with pride.