the origin of (my) evil

Bold and sour is the taste of this feeling
the vagabond assumption of loneliness
moving in from my head to my heart to my soul to my love,
digging in famished to find a sip of water,
a sip of a life path called normal but not mine.

Sharp and resolute is the obsessive need of being
chasing the rules in a pair of arms with my open soul
closed locked and chained
where god only knows,
where no worthy of love was my figure in the mirror.

Desperate is the memory of a deaf cry for help
a mirror and twelve years of life
the thunderous reproach:

fit in the beauty they sell
fit in the blouse they sell,
washed up by the tears,
by the fears and by the clear,
suppressed need to erase my soul,
the body I use to call home.