Kate LSY

Recently, I broke.
Fundamentally, 
with a dying identity croak—
along with the illusion of,
if any,
mental stability. 

Had another conversation,
a self-intervention
on how I lost control.
Even though,
I never stopped 
yapping 
at my soul. 

Tended every little bluebird. 
I never stopped. 
Checked my words,
postures, and every thought.
Examined each scar,
dissected it raw.
Every trauma, 
every claw—
to prove I’m healed,
worthy,
without a flaw. 

Buried countless past selves 
with rites and reverence.
Thank you for your service.
Channelled pain into prose.
Growth, and growth, 
and even more growth.
Though none was a virtue,
but a virus—
devouring its most
faithful host.

I am tired, beaten,
bitter,
by my own tribute.
Half glitter, 
full grim,
though, 
never a quitter.

But damn, am I tired.
Uninspired,
with nothing left to transpire—
refine, heal, nor desire.

If I must provide another
sacrificial offer
to the altar
of an examined life,
I swear—
I swear I will become
the villain of my own
nightmare. 

I need a chapter
not of becoming,
beyond rewriting. 
Instead,
to become
an author of being,
sitting in the silence,
hands bloodied,
blistered—
from shovelling graves 
of whom I once was. 

I’ll sit in my own ruin,
dance,
when I can,
in this wreckage made of dreams.
And if the villainess
comes
clawing—
then let her come,
too.

I’ll kiss her scars,
dry her face, 
crown her with reverence, 
and she can dance
in this wreckage, 
too. 

---

From Terms & Conditions May Apply, a collection of poems.
When The Villainess Comes —I’ll take a knee, kiss her crown, and finally find my place to rest.