With a nose pushed proudly in the air,
I rebuke claims of imperfection.
Bad blood does not flow through these veins.
Though thick clouds above prove otherwise,
I am shielded by my own monuments of ignorance.
I know an untruth when I see one.
Diagnosis: Bullshit
This bloodline is sanctified.
Disregard.
The silence is louder than the sirens.
Speaking amongst skeptics on the taboo?
My heart is already paralyzed.
Rejection is what I need the least.
My insides are already desecrated.
Smoking to numb the symptons.
Pulled thin from the tug-o-war
Played between reality and logic.
My mind commits sacrilege.
Refusal to believe and accept the cause.
What goes on does not compute.
Depression.
The worst part of suffering is doing so alone.
Bottles on top of bottles piled high in the medicine cabinet.
Each worse than the next.
Choked up trying to fight through the pain to explain the self-explained.
Side effects of the Celexa.
No one knows.
But I know.
If only they knew,
I'd be an outcast.
Neither fresh nor clean.
Quite the opposite.
Hushed voices upon arrival.
An abomination to all things sacred.
“Not enough prayer, tithing and praising was the cause.”
No.
Once again, the judicial system has failed.
♥P.
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