My Own Flesh And Blood

This feeling

It isn’t just when I stop talking because no one is listening

It follows me

It’s with me

It is me

Not entirely me, but a part

And that part has a loud voice

It’s criticizing itself because oddly enough, it’s truly the only thing that knows everything about me. So it can gives criticism for something no one else can or will. 

No one else is going to say shut up, and if they do "it’s not coming from the same place". No one is going to call me dumb, and if they do "they’re even stupider". 

This part, this voice, has taken an odd role

It’ll hate me the hardest, unless someone doesn’t like me

Then all of a sudden it tries to protect me from the harsh elements, shielding me but in the process blinding me and shutting me out.

Sometimes it agrees with them though

Takes their words as truth, then makes it hurt on a deeper level.

I could say fuck this voice

But it kind of knows what it’s talking about

At my lowest, I’ll listen

At my highest, I’ll laugh at it

And somewhere in the middle I’ll give it the love it’s been missing

If it’s so full of hate that I keep putting into it like a piggy bank

So what if love doesn’t go there, I’ll make it go there

Lost cause or not

I’ll change it

All the profane names that stab me will no longer be a kitchen knife but a spoon

It’s going to take patience

And I’m going to be mostly alone

For no one else can understand this part of me

Because it’s entire existence stems from

Every single thing I’ve done, said, experienced, tried, dreamed about, feared, loved, hidden, ran from, and been.

It is my own flesh and blood.

.t.b.