splintered

I wake with less to say each morning. my ears are still open, though I start to feel my patience wain as the days get warmer and the heat of the sun bleeds on into the night. compromise takes more than before and I find myself less willing to sit and wait in the dark behind a smile. rejecting the illusion, the puppet crumples in a heap: splintered and exhausted by the show. they throw him on the pyre to laugh at the thought of being something more than firewood or a means of keeping others warm.

I have thoughts that shouldn’t surface into feelings. friends notice a difference and tell me. some ask what’s wrong or why I can’t be how and who they’ve come to expect. I don’t know the answers and have to look deeper. when I listen to myself I chase thoughts into a cell. we light a torch to find my heart locked behind new bars I’ve seen before: bones scavenged from the debris of unmet expectations and the depths of past mistakes and disappointments. the cage is small and leaves less room for what I shouldn’t carry. I don’t know why or when it came or where I left the key, though I know it’s for the best if I’m to try to keep afloat. the questions wait for answers I don’t have. I cradle myself at the foot of the cage I cannot open. why have I learnt to love less when all I ever do is want more?