I don’t always play nice when I am put on your iron perch. I don’t like the straight lines or running out of sunlight anymore than I like following the lines set forth.

Like cobalt ink on thick paper and one drop of water, I bleed. I was never meant to be in one form nor was I meant to carry the pinkish rings around my wrists from your shackled chains.

I was meant to be on a throne, instead of this cage of your own accord. You believe I am niave, blinded by my emotions, but I am neither. My vision is acute and my walk is steady.

To light a match doesn’t mean I am playing anymore than it means I’ll get burned. I can feel my way through the dark by nothing but my finger tips. I know as much as can feel because some things don’t change.

Fuck your iron perches and all the mounting weight of significant knowledge you think I don’t possess. Fuck your inability to hear me without believing you aren’t in control.

The more you control, the less I feel right and the more I don’t feel right the less control I have.

Fuck all of that, I will bite. It’s a simple price to pay for your lack of understanding compromise.

You didn’t let me perch freely on your shoulder or sit quietly next to you. The iron is cold beneath my feet and turns my blood to a warm shade of icy demise.

Take this blanket of yours a fly.

Thank you for reading ♥️