? Eyes Closed
? Ed Sheeran

*I'm wearing clothes that cling to my skin for dear life, just a symbol that I'm dressed and nothing more.

The rain hails down the frustration of the heavens in giant drops of water that give away the mercy they still uphold.

My body wishes to drag me indoors away from the cold and most importantly far away from you. But who's to govern my soul, for surely it's not me when you're standing so close.

Thus I take the hand you've offered and drag my dread leaden legs to dance to your tune. "You and me, it's you and I" I twirl and shiver, I bow and feel my bones chill to their marrow. But it's you... It's you and me, it's you and I...*.

It took me 22 years to stand to these feelings and defend them valid and solid. It took me such a long time to raise the spear in honor and defense of my own peace. But alas! I am betrayed by who I call my own, those feelings I defended against your slander, that heart that I fought to keep intact, that mind whose peace I vowed to die for have run me over under your feet and installed you to the throne.

Words erupt like the fierce lava of a volcano. My insides turn and twist in an agonizing anxiety. And in the midst of the upheaval there's none emerging but you and the one to take the brunt of all the chaos is none other but me.

*I'm questioning my sanity as I speak with you cause it's not an illusion the pain and grief that I felt. It's not my imagination that ran wild with me in its clutches, these marks are realer than the sun itself.

I'm in constant dispute with myself when I speak with you, in a council of me, myself and I, I'm accused of deliberate torture and peace-slaughter.

To say I'm angry won't describe that which I feel but it makes me feel braver than to say I'm utterly terrified. Since I rather wrestle all my demons all over again than to pine over you and learn than it was in vain. Than to try and be everything I think you'd want me to be and lose myself along the way.

I'm scared of all that you'd bring along with your pretty face and all the woe that'll latch on to your gorgeous voice. And I'm not foolish to brace myself against you when I can just hide and remain alive.... Isn't that the saner choice*?

*To our hands the only answer is to fix, or scramble to fix what we broke. So however tiny the pieces we've left behind, we wallow in mud and leave our clothes ragged just to put the pieces whole.

But too many cuts have attested, too many ruins have proclaimed that reviving the dead is a feat to fairy tales so why don't we leave the pieces and start over again? Brand new clay for our handy hands and brand new hearts and all.*

The stones of your fortress seem like the armour to your body and the height of your tower seems like your position in society. Until you face an army yourself, until you get a nick on your face attesting how weak you truly are. Hone your blade my dear, hone your blade.

They'll take a taste of power, a lick and they'll love it. They'll chase it to own and exert it. Even if they're the emperor's towel bearer and not a soul answers to them, they'll want the service of their towels.

*Some will lay with you, their hands will fall to the trenches and valleys of your skin, they'll see the war that you had to live and the enemy you had to win over. The battle they approve of, the scarred warrior before them, they find unfit.

Some will see the valleys and be grateful you made it out, some will see the stitched pieces that make up your whole and rejoice that you even made it out of the hell at all.*