beyond my hastened, stoic belief–
bereft that I might stand some motive
to mirror that girl I see in the glass
of silver, that she might someday be me.
that I would shatter every last piece
of every past insecurity,
that had stolen some sweet identity
that cursed ill into my name.
And I knew,
beyond doubt, or power too strong,
that I would not shatter my life.
The moments captured beneath glass and bone,
the scars I etched into piece of stone,
the names I carved, that guilt I own
that she is who I cannot be.
that I would burn every last shard
silver, golden, or intangible.
That I would sever every stitch
that held me too close
to the things that I wish
I had never known.
Once, I was ignorant–and pure.
that I could let it go.
That I could watch the flames and smile;
that this would disappear,
that nothing would remain of me
But everything remains.
It is who I am.
And I cannot vow
or tell tale true;
I’ll pretend I never knew.
As if, I never once stopped to care,
but that treacherous book of words
is still there
and as much as I do not want it to be,
those words were once what defined me.
He was not my life.