St Jude finds me wanting

i wear my doubt
like a too-big shirt.
my insecurity smooths itself
onto my face like makeup
and my negativity fastens itself onto my feet
- i trample it every time i choose to stand up. 

so you know what?
i'll burn the things i wear
on my skin until it 
detaches itself from my 
psyche - it is mine, not yours.

yes, some people are just
born sad, but that wasn't the 
way that i was built. 
do not say that it is okay,
the skeletons in my closet
are banging on the doors
and begging to be let free

but i cannot release them -
i cannot release them unto
an underprepared teen.
it is neither deserving
nor am i sadistic

so here i stay,
shadowboxing my other half
until it cows into submission
and i take my place at the forefront.
we leave bruises on each other, 
dark things that crawl with words,
my worst injuries are not physical,
though i drive my body into the ground. 

The End

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