subtext

Shutdown in belief made from brick,

I scratch upon the walls like skin.

My face is clear, but bloodied from constant

self-abuse; the scars pulse like veins

of silver traced throughout the rock.

I could escape, but want for fear

to justify my roiling discontent.

Each word becomes a condemnation,

a sentence written along my bones,

defining in tight lines the boundaries

of what I cannot be, more than

what dust remains arrayed in crevices.

This much certainty I hold close,

I do not believe I believe as you do.