Metal

I think something might be fundamentally wrong with me.

with the way I feel things.

with how easy it is to detach from all things that hurt.

to move on immediately,

to rationalise that this isn’t it for me,

to be in this fight mode.

because its not beautiful resilience, no, it’s…

coats over coats of armor,

all made of different metals.

and while I look really cool wearing all that,

I’m concerned I’ve put on so much armor that

I can no longer see my own feet.

Each sucker punch used to make at least a sound,

clanks of metals,

but now I’ve learned to pad the layers with soft tissue that muffles the noise,

so that you can hit me

over and over and over and over again

and I’ll just close the hood.

and it’s just me.

alone.

in the dark.

with my own thoughts.

Except my own thoughts are starting to be stifled.

there’s no room under hood, and what sparks them is

scalding iron placed directly at the nape of my neck,

and burning blades slicing through my darkened under-eyes.

But the last time someone climbed all the layers of armor and saw my eyes?

before I used the flames they used to burn me to seal my visor shut?

the last time was

too much, too much, too much,

for me.

hope made my armor melt and you know what?

That fucking hurt. that really fucking hurt.

and yes, my mind was no longer blinded by the dark,

but then you left me and my burning flesh

because caring for the wounds was

too much, too much, too much

for you.

so I numbed the pain and I used the melted metal and I forged my armor again.

pulled the helmet on again.

closed the visor again.

and I swore, I swore, I swore.

never again.

I am good by myself.

I am warm.

I am happy.

I am alone.

In the dark.

With my own thoughts.