Imprisoned

Anger

They talk about me.
When I’m not there.
It doesn’t matter what I do or how I act.
They talk about me and they won’t stop.
It makes my insides burn and my eyes drip.
When they say those words my mind freezes.
My body is warm but my head is cold.
I close my eyes, it’s dark in there.
My lips purse.
My teeth clench.
I take knives and I slice my wrists.
My blood is free.
But I’m still trapped.

Demons
I look to the sky and I see a place I’ve never been.
I look at the ground and I’m in a place I’ll always be.
Is it so wrong to wish for more?
Am I so ungrateful for wanting to explore?
What will happen if I don’t stop my blood?
What will I receive if I let go?