Rock and a Hard Place.
A slip of the tongue and my body feels coagulated.
Thick and heavy with the essence of times forgotten.
I say something and it goes misconstrued because I will always be revered negatively, confirmed by the ease in which I am dissected with lyrical grit.
I will seldom be the picture I have carved from granite, dusted grainy and off-putting. Flickering little pebbles of my life, crumbling and crushed but yet it lingers.
Dear god, how it lingers. It is impossible to pick what is my flesh and what is rot apart when they are so intertwined in the lines of every passing souls boots.
I do not shout. I do not slam my fists on the rock that surrounds me. It is me, after all. I would only bleed onto my own frame, and prove them all right.
I instead withdraw. I sit in my rubble, and imagine how they would never escape such a tall tower of terror. I picture myself the peasant, throwing stones.
Would I even know if I was going crazy? I never have.