In my mind there is war,
Between myself and this façade,
This heavy cross that I bore,
Sometimes led me to question God.
A mask and dress forcibly sewn into my skin,
Jabbed sharp needles at every stitch,
Wounded what I have once been,
And soon reduced it to a festering Lich.
Like a cadaver left to rot in the forest,
And devoured by ravenous vultures,
My old self has been violently laid to rest,
As I was introduced to new cultures.
These were cultures of depravity,
Of hedonism, glamour, and pretense,
And I resent its entirety;
For none of this made any sense.
I tried to stop the Seamstress,
From completing Her hideous handiwork,
But I was in excruciating distress,
As She continued with an evil smirk.
I looked at who I have become,
Or at least who I had been forced to be,
I had to force myself to be numb,
For I absolutely loathed what I see.
However, there was a time,
When She showed me the fashionable masquerade,
Tempted me into this life I now see as a crime,
And soon, this hideous dress I now wear has been made.
I wanted so badly to be me again,
Unravel this repulsive thread,
Be one with free men and women,
And forget all about this dread.
But alas! I can no longer turn back!
The seams have been sewn shut,
My old self has faded to black,
As She finished the fabric with one last cut.