My feet are telling me to move.
As if they have a brain of their own.
‘You don’t stand a chance’ they say.
But I’m known to be stubborn when it comes to things like this.
I’m known to drop myself right into something my head creates.
Just to count how many pieces my heart is made of when it breaks.
And I still keep losing count every time that happens.
The cons of a goldfish memory.
A rebel for risks.
But something else in me always pays the price.
Maybe I’m selfish that way.
Inflict more pain just to feel alive.
And then die a little every time.
Till theres nothing left.
Till I’m back to walking again.
But instead, I just stand still in front of my future pain.
Waiting for the strike to my face.
The strike that puts me down.
Its as if my body worships the ground.
But I swear it doesn’t.
Maybe its a Stockholm Syndrome thing.
I’ve grown accustomed to how the ground feels.
How its shaped with its bumps, cracks and all.
But my hands.
My hands speak a different language.
They get locked in from the war that goes on in my body.
Every limb in me has a different story.
And my hands don’t know where they belong in any of those stories.
I pity them.
I know how indecisiveness can be a bitch.
Why can’t my body just listen to reason and agree on one thing.
Some are looking for shelter.
Some are looking for a cliff.
Some are looking for the ring to fight.
Some are just lost.
I can safely say that the majority is lost.
More lost than they’ll ever be.
And my feet aren’t strong enough to move on their own.