as I tore through all the layers.
I was ripping through
all the parts of
me, the parts that were supposed
bulletproof and yet they crumbled
and tore at the work
of particularly determined fingers, and
looking for questions.
Answers are always infinitely
easier to find.
The questions I found were
of why things are so unreachable while
other things are
The questions were of doubt
of wanting to know things
but being embarrassed to ask.
They were of late night reading and
sleeping with too many pillows
and waking up sort of
sad that the sun had risen again.
Why am I always my own prison?