Inside my mind I have three to contend, Two violent armours on which I depend. They constantly war and fight for control, The cost that it takes, a devastating toll. They battle for power, they tear me apart, Dividing each corner of mind and of heart. One wants to rule with a cold, heavy hand, The other burns wild and consumes all the land. Together they trap me inside of their fight, And leave me to suffer through day and through night. To understand why I can never feel free, You have to meet both of Them—and then Me.
First comes the Professor, cold and exact, Obsessed with the threat, demanding the fact. He checks every lock, he counts every step, To guard against promises no one ever kept. He maps out the danger ten moves in advance, Refusing to leave a single thing up to chance. Cold and calculating, with no time for fools, He protects you with hundreds of compulsions and rules. He makes all your choices be black or be white, No time for indecision when you’re preparing to fight. His word is absolute, his demands are the law, Keeping tight reign over every small flaw. A game of pure chess where he plots out the win, He punishes mistakes before they even begin. He forces the order, keeps everything neat, Demanding perfection with no room for defeat.
Then strikes the Aggressor, all fire and nerve, Inflicting the damage she thinks you deserve. She flares at the spark, she burns down the wall, Preparing for combat before the tears fall. A fierce, blinding armour that cuts through the dark, Striking first to ensure no wound leaves a mark. She’s idling on rage, waiting fast for the match, Blowing zero to hundred with no safety catch. She turns you to mirrors to blend with the crowd, Then drives you to run when the noise gets too loud. Impulsive and wild, she rejects and she clings, Tearing down life for the comfort it brings. When intensity peaks, she will turn you to numb, Just waiting for the next explosion to come. She splits the whole world into hatred or grace, Erasing your self till there’s nothing in place.
And then there is Me-the watcher, the light, The passenger sitting through the heat of the night. So much chaos I hold deep down inside, While warring with two, leaves me nowhere to hide. I sit in the middle while both run the show, Watching my life like a screen in the glow. Disconnected and tired, the pictures roll by, With no real emotion they feel like a lie. I follow the rules that are set in my mind, While chasing a self that I can’t seem to find. A quiet spectator, numb, faded, and worn, Governed by the rules and the rage I have borne. I hold all the pieces, I witness the strain, The referee standing in the middle of the rain. Still whole at the centre, enduring the test, Waiting for a day where the storm comes to rest. It takes all these parts to make up who I see, Without all this chaos, I’m simply not Me.
I write unfiltered, raw and brutally honest poetry and prose on trauma, survival and living with BPD and OCD, which I’ve had since childhood.
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