The echoes of muted screams

I'm the butchered cow, once fell, all alone, and the butchers roaming around, each one wanting a piece of his own.

I'm the orphan who dreamed excessively about Home, it started to project it on the faces of her predators. 

I choke on the thorn of the rose they offer me, totally oblivious to the purpose of any of it all, life, its roses, and the rose offering.

I am mother and child, and the deserting of both. The alienation, the abandonment, the sacrifice, the refuge, the longing, the containment, the attachment, and the detachment.

I am the neverending, always changing, mourning grief.

I am all the mornings, and some nightimes.

I am always escaping, avoiding, spacing out, self rejecting.

I am all the men that I have loved.

I am the residue of the residue of whatever breadcrumbs was ever thrown at me.

Men, women, children, all the same.

The pain is the pain is the pain is the pain.

Another day comes, 

Another day goes.

The cycles change, 

And I remain,

Griefbound.

On and on 

It goes. 

Until there is nothing left

but the echoes of muted screams.

Hush now baby,

Nobody's home. 

There is no home,

Just you,

And this incessant itching for a life that was only ever birthed once in your own psyche.

Hush and sleep now,

Or,

Just 

You 

Wake 

Up!