And you will know my truth, and my truth will set me free.

Look at me
But not through your eyes.
It's not you that the voice wants to break and grind into the ground.
It's not that you are the one that I am lashing out against.

My voice, leaping and soaring into the reaches of 'disrespect' and 'insolence',
'Arrogance', does not want to tear through your flesh at all.
No.
It's not you.
It's the glass cage I'm stuck in.
The sort that allows you to believe that I look and seem to move OK.
Ergo that I cannot be anything but 'OK'.

So imagine, the sort of resistance my voice has to face;
To scratch and drill through the diamond walls
That I built for myself;
To belt out and reach you,
Through the gag of your self righteous anger at me,
At my brazen 'disrespect'.
Imagine the dense glass and convincing glamour I've cast,
That it has to splinter through
To draw you out to the point where you might flinch
Because of my version of the truth.
My truth.

Imagined it?
But it's only for a split second, before you realised,
'This is not supposed to be my reaction.'
Yes, so far, your role has always, always had to be that of the injured party,

The poor mangled victim of my youthful bitterness
That clearly has--
And can never have--
A logical reason to exist.

Because my 'negligible age' cannot possibly have reason
To think beyond myself.
Obvious.
That I am nothing but self-centred.
Individualist to the point of hurt and torture.

So be it.
You shall remember these years
As the worst of my life,
Maybe the worst of your lives with me.
You will think that I will eventually apportion blame.
But remember that this wasn't the sound
Of young, arrogant pride.
It was the gunshot, the sharp, heavy crack
Of something reaching a breaking point.



me.