Who is your saboteur?
Who is he, that pops his head,
when you are up, to pull you down?
Who breaks your back, when you stand up,
and keeps you under, to ensure you drown?
Who, young doe, can be so bold?
Does he have a name,
a face, or kin?
Does he live within your crevasses,
and break through your paper skin?
Who, red one, has spilt thy blood?
Who knows thy weakness,
from thy form?
Who pulls you deeper,
into the storm?
Who, tender dead, has made you so weak?
Rash, and unholy,
who has kept you this meek?
Quite, and unspoken,
who has brought you this sleep?
Who, pray tell, is your saboteur?
Who wants you dead from within?
Is it you, from five years ago?
Or the boy, who in the mirror stares?
Or the man you are, with the men you lay?
Or the man for whom your parents pray?
Who, pray tell, sweet light of mine, is your real saboteur?