Re-Playing My Parts In the Cycle of Self-Loathing Love

Typically I’m broken in pieces but there is a beast inside that carries me through. 
I hear things that feed the paintings in my head I’ve gotten accustomed to.
Broken again I find myself running to catch rain drops of desires and promises.
I will be here. I want to go there. I love you.
I will never leave. I am this. I am that. I can lead too..
But no one believes me so my dream foundation feels uneasy. They say imposters become breezy when the lights go out. Put my makeup on like they told me but it doesn’t feel smooth it feels like a weight so I go without and put my dreams in a tattered box covered in shame and guilt. 
Randomly, in the briefest moments of sanity, with electromagnetic awareness, the sleeping beast steps up to the plate and rips open the box of dreams. 
One might think they’d fall in slow- motion, resisting gravity and defying the time-space continuum. Instead they leap and scatter for their escape, they splatter and break, taunting me, pulling me in various directions– as I scramble to catch one–
I find myself asking for the beast–suddenly no where to be found. 
Apologies, I thought I had power.
I was wrong. 
A simple song calls them back, flowing through me into neat stacks, sewing themselves into the box–once again, I mourn the loss of my heart and paint it black.

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