For months, I’ve tried getting rid of the
demons that manipulate the marionettes in my
head, only to see those demons gave me
something to feel.
Something to get angry about.
Something to fight against.
Instead, I put on layers
to shield me
from the wounds. Supposedly,
they bandage my battle scars and protect me from future ones.
Layer after layer, I struggle
with the chainmail until I
buckle under the weight of feeling
Not just from the stab wounds of sleepless nights crying myself to sleep.
Not from the explosive cannonball panic attacks. But also the smiles,
and laughter, and excitement, and hope.
As I swallow my last bit of pride and the tiny little pill,
I become engulfed in a chrysalis
of cloth and metal. Encapsulated in my own
cage, I scream an excruciatingly muffled cry.
It finally sinks in and suffocates
me like a straitjacket.