This isn’t me
I’m the escape artist
quitting before the going gets tough
hiding from fear, from pain
I’m the one that always gets away
dented, perhaps
a little the worse for wear
but not annihilated
not damaged irreparably
coming out the other side
I have often been better than before
eventually
until now
Yes, my childhood left its wounds
my escape was a bit too close
for comfort
no visible scars, tho
well
at least not until I made them so
with layers of fat
burying the deepest pain
hiding it
for all the world to see
But layers such as those can be shed
like a snake
or perhaps not
perhaps more like a moth
emerging from a cocoon
in the cover of dark
completely changed
from one thing into another
I facilitated my own metamorphosis
at the midnight hour
forced to
just in time
Now I am pinned down
caught
like a specimen
the one who everyone will see
as an example
a walking cautionary tale
reminding people to be afraid
for a minute, maybe more
but after that they’ll go on with their day
their life
unscathed
shaking their heads in pity
at my paper thin wings
now disintegrated
happy not to be me
I understand how they feel
How could I begrudge them their relief?
I’d be happy, too
if this wasn't me
