I tip-toed my way through the apocalyptic labyrinth. I was told, that the path has been decked with trip mines that'll go off as soon as I lay out one mistaken step. this labyrinth is my juvenile playroom and I have the trail all mapped out in my brain. something about undergoing the same hell every day is so enthralling – only, as long as I play by the rules.
I must not trespass
all of this will surpass
I must not whine
just stay in the line
will I always stay confined?
when will the sun shine?
I've been walking on eggshells for as long as I can remember. mental notes on how I should be a little less like that and more like this. camouflaging when they are around in the quintessential shades that won't be too unpleasant on their eyes. lowering my voice enough so that I could obliviously hide.
I'm scared, always scared.
I'm the trip mine that I set out in the labyrinth, it was all me—far too easily explosive.
I burst out in fiery tears, impulsively; leaving the impression of someone fragile, feeble—delicate.
I'm not, never have been
I've been walking on eggshells
since I was a child
