Minefields.

Turns out I was wrong about quite a few things,
But mostly myself,
I am bad at begginings,
just as I am bad at endings,
I am only good in between,
I have always been a combination of mismatches,
a complete list of incomplete tasks,
Like poorly coordinated cloths,
made of colors that don't work well together,
An outfit of magenta and mossy green.
A pair of pants that doesn't fit right,
a recipe with imbalanced flavours,
a great project poorly executed,
An eloquent poem, well written, badly performed.

Some days my heart is as light as a dandelion,
other days it is a fist of steel,
I feel every beat like a punch in my ribs,
And I bleed.

I know people have walls around them,
Impenetrable and secure,
I don't have walls, I am surrounded by minefields,
And I have lost the blueprint,
No one can come in and I csnt come out. 

Most of the time it feels like my body can't function without maintaining a certain level of sadness. 
That's the only way it knows how to exist, like I have some hidden gland somewhere that secretes it in my bloodstream at my body's demand,
like a drug I am addicted to.
I baptize my heart with hope quite so often, it's my ritual,
now it's filled to its brim with the illusion of having things under control,
That maybe tomorrow I will wake up without having to carry the world over my shoulder,
Without having to roll it up a hill knowing it will fall back down over and over again
Maybe tomorrow my perpetual state of sorrow will vanish,
Being the grand trick of a magician's show.
But I am afraid I've leaked all my patience,
Early on, I learned to drench all the bridges I build with gasoline, and just in case,
I cross them with pockets full of matches.