I created this shell.
Isolated myself from this hell.
Protected my heart,
As I wanted not for it to be torn apart.
Safe from their venomous bites,
And their unforgiving spites.
Safe from their frightening growls
And their malicious scowls.
My shell is my home,
My armour and my shield.
It is my guide,
And my only place to hide.
Not a single soul must see me without it.
Without it, I am completely bare and vulnerable.
Easy to hurt,
And prone to mistrust.
My shell, even though keeping me safe,
Does little to keep me sane.
Along with it’s protection,
The feeling of being tied down by invisible shackles,
Clasped firmly round my frail ankles.
Weighing me down,
On my knees and to the ground.
Making me slow,
So I know,
That I shall not grow.
The feeling of not knowing who to turn to,
And not knowing what I might turn into.
The feeling of knowing that all hope is lost
And that life has no cost.
My shell, my guide
My armour, and my pride.