Ur attacking me and I can’t even feel where my skin begins
because ur hands are sunken and rooted inside me. Ur scorching
fingers coil more and more deeply thru my protective conscious barriers that took years to grow
thru my flesh
thru the busy corridors of my unconscious
and u leave a scorched, steaming trail everywhere ur fingers traveled.
The blind fingers finish free-falling thru my unconscious being excavate shame. The finger grips the awkwardly shaped emotion till it melts into belittlement. The hands cup together to catch the drippings and they pour it into the ocean of my consciousness mind. Metric tons of belittlement pollute my thoughts of self-worth.
I’m not good enough. It’s always a comparison, it’s always a fight.
Even if ur trying to help me; I fight to show u what I did right, even if I was all wrong.
I’ll lie to feel like I’m not losing a fight.
Even when no one has said anything positive or negative, I create phantom fingers to rummage around inside for myself.
The sad thing is that I’m the one making myself feel this way. I’m my own prison guard and I dutifully stand at my post.