the slow art of breathing bitter

True Fight

The battle you think you're fighting

isn't the battle in reality.

The cries you cry in front of your mirror,

turning yourself a cherry-red mess—

aren't the cries that are worth it.

The demons that shred your nerves into pieces

and make you feel slurry—

aren't the demons you should fight against.

The day your grey ceiling will turn bloody blue,

When your heart will fight with you,

And you will make those purple bruises bleed.

When your heart will turn into a cold stone,

Enough to blink those burning tears back,

And your old 'you' changes to your 'you'—

is where the actual fight begins.

When your Mom's strict scolds, Dad's cold glares,

Faint into the stony wall,

And you choose to be imperfect, and be your own self—

does the story begin.

And the pale walls turn absurdly beautiful,

The demons paint your ceiling with stars,

And your 'new' self spins the world away 

from every 'forced-to-be-made' thing,

And kisses you roughly, until you know—

The actual battle has actually taken the odds off you.