I’m sick of walking into dark rooms,
Tripping and stumbling over the effects of everything left behind,
Feeling with my fingers the ice cold walls,
Looking for the switch.

My shadow hides in the darkest corners,
Where it can be forgotten until I remember another part of me,
And become accustomed to the dark,
Playing the game it’s playing with me,

My fingers roll over a pattern of roses
Sharp thorns stick into me, a forewarning of some grander discovery,
With bloody fingers I find my destination,
And as if by accident trip the switch,

As the light fills the darkness I have grown to know,
I find only that the dreaded darkness was my comfort,
Standing before the truth in the light that I craved for so long,
I cry, wishing I had never flipped the switch,
For with the darkness left the innocence of my ignorance.

 
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