shackles

There is something about me that was constructed badly.  No, not badly.  There is something inside of me that was built wrongly.  A badly built bridge is still a bridge. 

I feel empty much of the time.  When I’m alone, anyway.  In the presence of others, I am a mirror.  I reflect other people.  I have little depth to my own personality, my own emotions. 

I’m not very good at doing what I want.  Maybe that’s a good thing.  I’ve always tried to grow as a person, to be more selfless.  Is it my ultimate place in life to be a secret martyr?

I long for bold irrationality, instead of insidious delusions that turn into acceptable truths.  I’m too responsible to be crazy, too adult, too rational.  Too rational to be irrational. 

Except in a quiet way.

I wear the bruises on my hands, like rings and bracelets, made of iron and not gold.