and it’s in these words,
once spilled to explain myself,
to reveal myself
to myself,
that i find myself once more

been over taken by the under tow
of fantasy,
the promises of a story not yet lived

choking, drowning
with lungs full and heavy with grief
grief of true loss of love,
grief of the parts in me long forgotten,
starting to make their journey to the surface
only to be drowned out again
by the noise created through my story telling

my wild self,
the one that longs to run barefoot with the wolves
still struggling to survive
while i preoccupy myself
with temporary thrills

thrills of satisfaction that can only ever be fleeting,
only ever be transient
only ever be a distraction

why am i so afraid of the self that lurks beyond the daydream,
beyond the wish,
beyond the obsession with temporary thrills

i want myself, for myself, to myself,
yet i fear who she is and what she’s really here to do


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