Bird

Will I ever be free? All those voices say otherwise,
Will I go off normal? Those voices always deny.

I hate how I feel when I look at you in the mirror,
The remorseful loathe poignant in the body;
I feel it in the soul.

Held captive in my mind, in the memories of time,
In the voices of thousands—Now it's hard to distinguish which one is mine.

Do I hate me? Or do I just pretend?
Is not hating me a bad thing?
Is not hating a monster a sin?

Should I hate myself?
Am I guilty of not doing it?
Should I forgive myself?
Is forgiving a monster a bad thing?

From every bit of me, the pain wants to come out—
Or is that the monster mirroring me whole?

I ask and weep, my soul screaming and scratching,
I stare at the immaterial vision—Now craving vengeance.

All those voices—Now it's normal to walk with them.
All that disgust—Now it's easy to hide.

What even is freedom?
Is it the voices becoming kind ?
Is it me being what I am?
Is it me becoming the monster I hide?
What is freedom? Should I even fight?

Is it my childhood?
I want to blame everything on that—
The easy way out, rather than searching my entire demeanor.

I ask, and ask all the time,
Even to the constant walking shadows,Whom in the depths I try to hide.

I try to weep it out; I want to scratch it out.
Perhaps the recesses of my heart would revive If I yank it out.

My blood flows through my eyes,
Invisible, hot, gushing with flame, that never subsides.