Splice

I have never been a child, to believe in happy endings
Knowing the grim truth of faery tales too well and too early
Knowing that the dragon that most needs killing is sometimes yourself
I know not what to make of this
I know not what I am
Trudging along in stubborn futility or venturing bravely forth into a new reality
I choke on the lies we tell ourselves
Seeking, still
Clinging to duty to justify each gasping breath
Longing for safety and the bitter dregs of hope
Drinking, as always, deeply
Unable in the end to be anything but this
Unable to follow any path but that I chose so long ago 
When I was still capable of dreaming
Fingers bleeding as I weave it
Making beautiful patterns in the darkness
Bringing glorious color to the light

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