sat by the ocean

warrior

it just feels like a constant fight
there's always more I have to do—
when it's not in the name of others,
it's in my own.

I have people supporting me from the stands;
yes, I understand that wholely
but I have no one who will carry my weight for a minute so that I may have a moment's rest

if I could forget this for five minutes—
if I could drain the fight from my eyes at long last
for only for seconds
I'm not sure if I would do it

there's always some sort of indecision at play

and my claws—yes, my claws—are always the right amount of sharp
but lately I have needed to retract them to touch my own skin
and my teeth, too, are so sharp, and fit right just for chopping,
but I more recently find my tongue aching from their prick
and my words, lately, have been softer too
but I feel that my silence will result in more healing

no voice,
no arguments I can spark

no movement,
no problems I can cause

no interaction,
no people I can upset

oh, but won't they be offended
at the lack of my presence for so long?
tsk, tsk, there seems always to be more
that I must do.

I feel I must bend over backwards
simply to let another man walk
and I feel I must carry everyone else's weight
as redemption for my own.

or maybe it's all stemming from the mistakes I made in my past?
would that be it?

because I surely do harbor a torturous amount of guilt,
and I surely have not forgotten how sharp everything about me is
I designed myself that way, I designed myself a weapon I could never lose

and yet,
I try constantly to get rid of it

it's much better, I think,
to accept the sharper and the wiser parts of ourselves,
lest we end up as I have,
shrouded in scorn and misery and in false prides and hopes and sufferings

I do torture myself so,
and it is no more righteous than it is safe.

it is unfair of me
to torture myself over and over again
for years long, long, long past,
when I have let others far worse off the hook
without a second glance.

it just feels like a constant fight—
like a battle needing to be won,
or else all hell breaks loose in my mind
and yet, it is already here.

what am I so afraid of?

is it affection?

but oh, how I am slowly, painfully warming up to this.
please don't let it end here.

maybe I'm just fearing the day that it all stops—
that people stop caring about me and start getting back to their lives before me with such ease and comfort as if I was never there.

what horrible times those are,
the times in which I feel such a way.

I cannot lament much without my mother's voice taunting
oh, woe is me,
for I have been wronged in the slightest and therefore shall parish on the spot
in the forefront of my mind.

I don't need to be weak.
I don't need to be strong, either.

a partner o' mine has dancingly suggested that I stop my trying to be strong all the time
and instead, my own mind finishes,
be strong when and where I have the strength to be.

but it is not as simple as that,
as most things are not.

I know I live forever in complication,
and for that, I have scorned myself, too,
for humans like more simple creatures,
and, my brain tells me, that means they won't like you.

it isn't weak to be vulnerable,
and even if it was,
being weak isn't a bad thing.

so long as I am,
physically,
safe and healthy,
weakness does not matter.

however,
this fight is in my head,
and thus,
it cannot be stopped,
nor can I be saved.

other people can't peer into other people's heads like I do
give a glance, or a thorough look,
and I know everything I must.

but other people don't have that power,
and it's painful to know that it means they don't know me.

it feels like a constant fight
and one of these days
I might start losing.

will you help me, then?