The falsehoods you internalize when others attempt to dictate your behavior.
They map the borders of my skin,
And mark the exits I must feign,
They decide where I should begin,
And dictate how to hold my pain.
They script the cadence of my speech,
To prune the brambles from my tongue,
Keeping the truth just out of reach,
With heavy songs I never sung.
They draw a circle round my chair,
And trace the lines where I should stand,
Demanding grace I cannot wear,
To fit the mold they have in hand.
They polish rust to look like gold,
And choreograph my every sigh,
Telling me what must be told,
And when to lower down my eye.
But underneath the borrowed skin,
Where quiet gears begin to grind,
There is a storm they haven’t been,
A wildness they can never bind.
For though they cast the heavy mold,
And carve the path I’m meant to tread,
They cannot catch the life I hold,
Within the fortress of my head.