The child

The Child

(picture by Gustav Klimt)

I feel so suffocated.

I just can't breathe.

The walls enclosing me seem to become smaller in size

as my better judgment is being deceived all over again.

I know what I want, or at least I thought I knew,

but maybe I'm just a small infant after all.

Clueless and ignorant.

My heart is torn

and my mind simply flustered.

I've been told not to listen to my heart,

always beguiling my senses.

But I just can't help it.

Even if I do, what's the point of it all,

if it doesn't even know what it actually wants?

Others say just to leave it be;

that time will heal the wounds that I'm inflicting.

Yet how so, if it itself worsens the bruises?

I'm not who I was

and my heart doesn't comprehend that fact.

I'm feeling claustrophobic when I look around.

I feel the intense leers of piercing eyes, though non-existent.

I can't ignore the pressure;

I'm stumbling into the depths.

Falling; crawling

in an abyss of darkness.

I hear myself talking,

but I can't understand my voice.

"It's a stranger's, not mine,"

is what I disclose.

The worst part is I'm not the only one involved.

Not only my heart will suffer, but also others'

if I don't think it through nor wisely.

So maybe I am an infant, after all.

When the road gets rough, and it hails ice,

I tend to run for cover,

to the protection of my mother's womb.

I can't recognize myself today;

that's not how I truly am.

But today, I am even a smaller child than I already am,

Clueless and ignorant.