I used to see patterns in my mind. I believed I could shape my destiny. When I was fourteen I split into a fractured fantasy. I could see my future bleed out colors from a possible reality. My metaphors carried a stubborn hope that I was stronger. Stronger than death, than evil tyrants and false memories. The psychiatrist didn’t know that I had seen beyond this pair of eyes. Isolate me in your perfect box. In the end we all go there to burn. I stared into the zig zags of the airplanes and prayed for freedom. My apathetic friend could not conform nor fit the woeful needs of being this. I’m broken and can’t fix the pictures. I medicated away the voices that became angels and answers and demons under the rugs. Is there any way to escape cancer? God Laughs at my depression and I see that the sky has fallen. I want to go home. Home is the only place I feel. I don’t want to believe in broken frames. I want to push the darkness away. I want to rise above the person I’ve been. I’m sick of letting them inside my head. But if I have to be submissive is that better than dead? Letting go of everything became impossible and I turned into dust. I became a cracked depiction of who I was that was fiction. But it was real to me. And who was they to change my realities? Open me up and pour it all out I’m about to leave you alone. I’m done with the strange twist in my chest the guilt of love for I wasn’t the best.