She Isn’t Your Typical

She will not say what you expect her to, like something radical, but it may be predictable. Will it be original? She will defy what you expect her to, because she is stubborn, and finds it funny to get a reaction from a predicatable you. You've been trained, we've been chained, and born with no golden spoon. I've been lame, and here I lay with nothing but watching the sunlight flicker across the room. In this cage, I've felt more regret and sorrow than rage, as I realize I have taken all the pieces of which held you-no more glue. In this stage, on this plane, I am not sane I am just see through. What I say gets no exposure, tape over the mouth, fingers cut off from typing. Don't want to see my idea of truth. Maybe the sun doesn't want to see you, but does it have a choice? And maybe the moon is sick of seeing you stare at it with romantic eyes, or crying drunk, or howling with lust, or blankly looking at its lonely ball. I wanted to dominate, control, escape, and crawl down the throats of every person who thought they could do the same to me. And I realized, I am not a chimney sweeper. I don't want their ashes all over me. As if I couldn't already breathe. I wake up, don't stand up, just shut and watch no TV. I cry. I cry. I cry so much there is no point to the self pity anymore. While the world spins and seasons change, I peel like old wallpaper. In the background, as usual, casually and poorly whistling a tune to a song that doesn't even exist. Because do I exist?... in a state like this? I am a body bag filled with candied guts, and the kids can all take a swing at me at their party. Pinata. Laughter. Collection. My despair I don't care, get me out of here and I will just sleep next to a bucket of piss, as if it is the smell of a vanilla candle. What went wrong?