Alive and Here

These voices pluck into the strings of my rib cage screaming it’s song
of dissatisfaction.
Sensitive to the hands, it takes time getting used to the nagging. 
And I cannot ask of anything that would resemble help, 
because that would mean I am weak.
But I am weak with the notion that I’ll never be anything more than alone with these hands pulling on my garments, left and right.
Left and Right. 
I’ve got glass in my feet and yet I’m still running on these bones that carry skin. 
I am alive.
But I am far from it.  
Struggle is a term everyone understands, 
So don’t tell me I’m not trying. 
Because I see Satan everyday and still decide to come home with bleeding feet and a broken rib cage giving you all pieces of my empty heart.