The Purge

I’ve been trying to get these

Words off of me

But they’re stuck on me

Like a second skin


I feel raw and exposed

Naked in an unfamiliar way

Foreign to my own self


And I…

I keep searching for the

Right me that I should be


So I become an enemy of myself

Not me

But the me I’m trying to get rid of

The me that’s up in the middle of the night

Tossing and turning

With no more tears left to shed

The me that’s tripping over her own heart


So I wear this reckless ambition like a makeup

Because it’s the only war paint that I have at this point


I can’t walk a straight line in this fight against myself

Because this

I’ve got to get my hands dirty in this


This is not a polite war

Where similes and metaphors

Create images that make you

Warm and tingly


This is a blood bath where literary arteries are ripped open

And indecent exposure of the self is at its highest


This is an old fashioned war

Where I eat, sleep, and fight on the battlefield

Because this

This is a purge


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