Body

What am I allowed to do with this body? A broken sack of doubts and incorrigible needs that suck me to my knees.
There is a place where I may kneel alongside flickering lights of God's good will-- the holy place where an unholy man may steal.
 I am not of my mother's cloth, the one cut can cut to the bone of some strange man to whom I am no longer acquainted with.
 He's is gone to another life, a basket full of bastards clinging to the sole of his shoes.
What can I do with this body?  A dead arachnid can still hang in lifeless light,  a skeletal statue of yesterday, clings to his web with all of its might.
 I am an undiscovered faithful of that which I do not believe. What is it that saves me a thousand deaths can also let me suffer, cry, and deceive.
 I am not a play thing of some gentleman character, his ownership presses me to the wall and I kick back his forceful will.
 I am not of his cloth, I push away from his chest, a poisonous gentleman who cowers in his nest.
 Give me the freedom to cut it all off, wipe it away, you will never love me not. I choose to be this woman, the one in the back. I'll cave myself in and then build myself up.
 You don't need to know what I care not to share and endless story that will spit and stare on.
 What am I allowed to do with this body? I choose to take years more to see, the person who looks back is the friendlier me.
 I am on the other side of what should be of this old woman's mind. Give me my youth in some form of a sack, give it to me, give me my life back.