Behind Glass

I’ve tried so hard to make my soul perfect

by denying myself the right to feel.

Pain, as it is, has its own appeal.

I’ll admit I’m fond of the sensation 

of sweet and shallow evisceration.

The kind of thing you can only get

when you’re walking along a stone that’s whet

from the wild rivers ever bending path

as you take a non consensual bath.

I’d selfishly keep that pain to myself,

if I could grasp the concept of a Self:

An entity full of contradictions

who acts upon its own predilections

predetermined by those who are older.

These contradictions are feed and fodder,

forced down my throat like holy sustenance– 

But the truth is, this is my penance 

for choosing a life of uncertainty.

I know choice is inherently empty,

For there is no meaningless without meaning.

I may be better off as an object.