BPD, My Own Martyr, Savior, and Abuser

My skin is a farse

Seduced by lines and shapes colored in carefully

Bones shaking violently

Because the Identities kept in cages

Scream

Suggest

Different lines

Different colors

This way

This way

It must be this way

Because the picture it creates

The safety

The solitude

Is addictive

False

But so sweet that the bitter aftertaste

Of repression

Is

Tolerable

Oh because with these shards of stained glass

I can become beautiful

Tempting

Desirable

And then

I can push them all away

Revel in my own torture

Let the velvet black envelop me

For what

Whom

In some sadistic way I believe

This

Self mutilation

Of identity

Will find me love

If

One were to pass my tests

Fight me

For me

Do the work for me

Keep me afloat

Call my bluff

Willing to love someone so wishing

And romanticizing solitude

Whilst silently screaming for companionship

Then

Only then

Could I let myself be loved

And whilst this war

Wages

Constantly

I am also a bystander

Calling my own bluff

Yelling my own name

All too aware of this insufferable game

The consequences

The frivolousness

But they are numb

Paralyzed

Silence and shut out by the others

Left to sit patiently on the sidelines

Because when there is calm

They will come forward

With peace and understanding

And

The cycle will begin again