I am Fragile
My fragility.
It’s a dispute of the unborn.
Sometimes I feel my loathe curling into the caves of my doting delicacy.
Sometimes I feel my pondering breath, stifled under the world’s strangling oxygen.
Sometimes I feel my security solace itself through the brittle tremble of my palms.
The mercy enchants me.
The relentless, ceaseless yearn of every man, inhaling my infirmity; a futile faith to fuel a defective ego.
The persistent, unyielding ruthlessness of every man, swallowing my hallucinated plea for the shelter of their calloused.
The obstinate, treasured haunt of every man, consuming my crumble; a famine to a fuelled, faux masculinity.
The egocentric proposal of a succoured sanctuary igniting my flesh in a hatred so potent; I cannot help but receive.
I cannot help but accept the ascending high of a haven so temporary, it gratifies the salves of my supplicatory wounds.
Is this what it has come to?
The reflection of the glass indulges at my bare bequest of my rupture.
The relics of my DNA question my competence for an ancestry demolition.
The throttled atoms of my making flourish onto the endless, violent anguish for the transgression of my dignity.
And the inevitability of my reality finally consumes the romanticisation of my presence.
I am fragile.
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