Who am I to become
when my stories are obliterated?
When I awaken
naked and unarmed
upon a shadow mottled
It’s not that I want swaddling cotton fantasies.
I want the armor
consistent with my role,
both hard lessons in the real and
the comforting warm arms of happy home.
It’s more than I can bear.
I crack wide open.
Exquisite scenery means nothing;
I hide inside my wound.
There’s nothing left to bind blatant bleeding.
Exposed to this dire world,
my face intently blind.
waiting for the lightening to strike.