(To all those who bear the burden of Boarding School Syndrome,
I invigorate you to walk on with hope in your heart,
And you’ll never Walk alone.)
For poetic justice's sake, I wanted my life to be a murder mystery...
And I lived leading people on to different versions of what I essentially am constituted of,
A coward thriving in the shadow of idealism and make-believe.
'What I wouldn't do to be the stuff movies were made of...'
And with every conviction I utter lies,
I'll believe them and I'll make you believe in me too,
Till I break myself and you remain a bystander,
And then I'll kill myself for the shame.
I haven't faced rejections enough because the idea of its existence has made me afraid to venture,
And so, the times I do, I never forget,
It's especially difficult for someone conditioned to want to be loved,
And want to match up to demands of appearances.
I'm not in the search for truth, that’s a fucking clichéd myth.
I want clarity, but the voices in my head. The Voices, The Voices.
Because I know and they know what is possible,
That the rusty blood sticking to my bones does not scream 'Martyr'.
They whisper a different cry, one that I refuse to echo.
Failure is far from that.