I really am my own worst enemy

I think I need to fight myself

when the war for my heart

has already been won


but I bleed mistrust

my wounds ooze insecurity

so I bandage them up myself


still acting like I don’t know my role

like I am ad-libbing this character

but the curtain is not there

there isn’t even a stage anymore


so I don’t know what to do with myself

alone in a room with my emotions arguing

my head reciting the lines


and all the while

Truth is in the room, cleaning up that ripped curtain,

tearing down that stage, saying,


“Show’s over. Give up the act.”


(but I am comfortable and afraid)


so I move to the museum

putting a replica of myself on a shelf

summing up briefly on a sign

who I am


(It’s easier than standing for something)


and all the while

Grace is in the room, a wild look in her eyes, saying,


“In case of emergency, break glass.”


and I know I can’t breathe while I am on display

I know this room is for old things, dead things

I know that stages are for pretending


and just then I realize

Choice is standing there, reminding me,


“You don’t have to live like this.”


he points to the exit sign, lit up, blood-red


and I smash through the glass,

a self-imprisoned convict


and I run towards the door as fast as I can

knowing life waits on the other side