I am the meticulous creator of my own circumstances
I am the altruistic author of each poisonous line my mind feeds me
I am the perplexing architect of my own constructed pathways that lead unceasingly to locked doors
I am the labyrinthine fabricator of every intricate level of my insides, every one precariously placed upon another
I am the designer of these perfectly accepted outsides of myself and the unidentified detested insides of myself
I am undoubtedly, inarguably, undisputedly the only maker of me
Is there one single being that can fathom and discern the things I’ve done?
Is there anything capable of assimilating the complicated state of my mind that fed each step I’ve taken?
Not any longer
I am witness to my choices engraved on the inside of my skin
Carved there after each choice was acted out
I will live with each one until I can shed this skin
Or until the moment every inch of my skin is carved to pieces
And there is nothing left of my complex obscure muddled creation