Not Mine

I wake up every day in my bed, but it’s not mine.
These walls I’ve painted will never be mine.
My clothes, my bookshelf, my guitars,
nothing will ever be mine.

This heart of mine was sold before I could even understand it.
My voice has never existed, my ears bound to his will,
my eyes blind to the world outside of this house.
I cannot escape, for I am trapped.

My soul aches inside this body that does not belong to me
and my skin feels of a foreign texture; not soft, not hard.
My hair is not my own, it’s something of its own element.
And these eyes, well, they see not what they should.

I cannot escape, I cannot yell out.
I am silenced every day.
I cannot be free, for even when I am gone,
I will be a prisoner to his haunting words.

The threats and empty promises that invade my ear drums;
The late nights, crying myself to sleep.
The yelling and screaming, the bleeding and hitting;
I will never be free. Ever.

I am alone in this house.
There is no love here, just a big, happy facade.
There are no good memories, not even funerals.
I know none of them will be free.

I am alone outside of this house.
I confide in no one.
They don’t know me, nor care to comprehend.
I’ve stopped trying to escape.

So here I am, bound by chains to another machine.
Listening to commands from both, uncertain and weary.
Loneliness has a price.
I will never be free.