How was my week?
Fighting a ghost war inside my autoimmunities.
It’s a monotonous rhythm, these same old words.
Suddenly, I know this version of me—
He answers a little slower,
Laughs a little quieter,
Disappears a little easier.
He always arrives without knocking.
I’m paying my dues and playing the part,
But the themes in this house call the shade from my heart.
The shadow man wakes and the protector steps in,
To guard the micro-traumas beneath my white glass skin.
I wasn’t born with these horrors, I just know the strains
Of a world that demands I show thanks for the pain.
I’m paying my dues and playing the part,
But the themes in this house call the shade from my heart.
The shadow man wakes and the protector steps in,
To guard the micro-traumas beneath my white glass skin.
I wasn’t born with these horrors, I just know the strains
Of a world that demands I show thanks for the pain.
And just like that, it's harder for the smile to reach my eyes.
The bed tugs at me harder not to enter the cold world just yet.
My heart weighs down, my laugh sounds hollow,
Food loses taste, and the colors fade out.
My joy and my dreams feel like they belong to someone else.
I am a shell of myself, getting by each day
On gasoline, nicotine, and routine,
Staring in the mirror, wondering who that person is anymore.
I’m paying my dues and playing the part,
But the themes in this house call the shade from my heart.
The shadow man wakes and the protector steps in,
To guard the micro-traumas beneath my white glass skin.
I wasn’t born with these horrors, I just know the strains
Of a world that demands I show thanks for the pain.
I know what I’m worth, and the math will add up—I’m pouring out fiercely, but who fills my cup?
True hospitality doesn’t demand that you hide,
And peace shouldn't mean that you're hollow inside.
My goal for next week is to know tomorrow's sunrise is worth it,
To look past the walls where the expectations lied.
Because my true horizon isn’t trapped in this room—
It’s in the mist of the mountains, the espresso machine's bloom.
It’s in the rain and the romance, the safety I’ll make,
When the debts are all settled and the morning can break.
Where my appetite for bitterness no longer returns,
And my sour words rest at the tip of my tongue,
With the desire to strike no more.
