I’ve been many different people
and struggled with myself
I’ve bottled up my problems
collecting them on a shelf
like trophies they sit waiting
collecting ash and dust
from bridges burned and bodies buried
and I just let them rust
trauma talk flows freely
but feeling kept at bay
the root of my turmoil hidden
in what I don’t say
I don’t know who I am
what I like or how to feel
it’s all become a blur of gray
my inner workings cased in steel
cold to the touch
icy avalanche for a voice
defensive wounds worn sheepish
proof of constant mischoice
every day spent longing
to go backwards to the child
I left behind years ago
safe and meek and mild
where I once was full of wonder
now filled to brim with shame
how I hate to say it
but damn it, I have changed.