I'll Cry If I Want To

I could not tell you why I'm like this,

could not tell you why

there are days

when I cannot move anything.

Whose limbs are these,

are they mine?

Move, I tell them.

They do not listen.

I could not tell you why

there are days

when I cannot manage a hello,

a nod of the head,

because it is acknowledgement

of a happier world

that I do not live in

for that moment.

So you can ask

what's wrong?

all you want.

You can ask to appease yourself

to settle your own conscience

as if

once you've asked

you no longer bear a burden.

What's wrong?

And you're free.

You can ask

what's wrong?

and care.

But nothing's wrong,

it's just me.

I am still bound.

Still trapped in the cell I built myself,

still strangled by the medals I've collected.

I am still choking on air I poisoned myself.

What's wrong, you say.

You think I know the answer?

Am I supposed to know

the answer?