Slave To

How am I meant to be whole, when pieces of me are scattered here, there and everywhere to aid other people?

How can I make my own decisions when I feel so watched?

How can I be me, whoever that is, when there’s so many others around me forcing their ideals, their suffocating personalities onto me?

Can I really say that I’m free? In a literal sense, yes, for that I am grateful. But my mind isn’t. It never is.

For I am slave to my emotions, real deep and raw.

Slave to my past, scatty and poorly structured.

Slave to my mother who I am strong for when she can’t be.

Slave to my sister who will always be better than me.

Slave to my brother who’s mind overpowers mine.

Slave to my boyfriend who I just want to see happy – without restriction or being anything but himself.

Slave to my Grandparents to whom I owe so much.

Slave to my managers who I just want to tell to fuck off.

Slave to my creativity which rears its head at the worst times.

Slave to my opinions that just seem to fight for the little guy.

Slave to my insecurities which create a new problem each day.

Slave to technology and television and ideals sent to me through a brightly light screen.

Slave to the anxiety that seems to always scream.

Slave to it all… Because it is everywhere and inside of me. They control me. They decide who I am. But like Stockholm syndrome, I am in love with my captors and don’t know if I could live if I were free.

And I’m breaking.

Unhinged.

How can someone who feels like they carry the weight of so many, feel so expendable? Surely their world’s would collapse without me? And yet…Here I am, feeling unimportant. Forgotten. Used. An afterthought. Just the thing you expect to always be there. A piece of furniture.

So I weep alone and try my best to remember where all of my pieces are. Don’t let anyone down now, child. Do what’s right. Please everyone like the good girl you are.