Epitaph of Me

I’ve wasted time

Working to live out

Other’s dreams and expectations,

Pushing the envelope,

Hoping they were right

And that heartbroken battle scars

Will fade even more with time.

I am seemingly fragile,

Small-framed and thin-blooded,

Until you define me by can’t or shouldn’t,

Words worn thin

Under 115 lbs of pressure.

And, I live reactively,

Proving that my box

Is a springboard.

But, who wants to live like that?

Constantly waiting for the next set of no’s,

When we can actually chose our yes’s,

That wonderful well-fitting dress on sale,

Without hesitation or guilt.

Without the weight of disappointed eyelids

Or authority’s smirk,

I can run into me,

Hang out with my preferences,

Validate my own reflection

And continue to write my story

As I see fit:

I have the pen.

So, I chose to write hew pages,

Draw new pictures,

In a collection of experiences

Only I can call MY life,

Not my epitaph,

Beyond the yellowed, worn, and re-read faded ink.

Why?

B/c the magnitude of your presence

Needn’t write another word

Nor wrap around me,

Suffocate me in otherness

Instead of drowning me

In the softness of my own slumber.

This is me,

Crawling with habituation and angst,

Dragging my knees

Against my own concrete jungle,

My ivory tower,

Until the bricks bleed my story

And you weep my tears.