The Architect

I blueprinted the prison
then locked myself in.
Every "yes" forged a bar, each "I'm fine" ate a sin.
Didn't
it?
My opinion?
Not in a million
years. Not again.

Perfection
pressing
my repression
and my need to fit in.
The twist?
Approval is my drug always jonesing a fix.

Both warden and inmate with nowhere to roam,
no lifeline to phone,
how did I not know
I'm free to go?
Funny, that gilded prison convinced me it's home.

Wear compliance as couture and shrink for applause
all because
"I am my flaws."
That's it, last straw.
Wait, who wrote these laws?
The iron bars?

Broke out, had to leave,
I called a cease
fire and permanent reprieve.
I gave it the heave—
ho and let go my naive
ways morph into peace.

Stop. Just breathe
in the relief.
Open my eyes and believe
you me
the world will never again be deceived
by my inability
to see
that I'm worth everything.
I rose up, indeed,
to the fear that would not leave.
Now I laugh and I grieve
continually
with my heart on my sleeve.

No excuse.
I made a truce
with self-induced
abuse
never to seduce
and reintroduce
this toxin. Proof
how easily a halo becomes a noose.

— Tami Jo Urban