At eleven.

[aenariel]

it's out of reach
it's out of control
I'm out of depth
I'm out of excuses

I flinch at the thought
I smile at the consequence
I smile of the thought
I flinch,

it's out of my reach
it's out of my control
I'm out of my breath
I'm sick of my excuses

I jump at conclusions
I react at my anger
I cry of frustration
I recoil,

the window, my dear, has been opened a while,
and the wind, it calls. it sings. it taunts me.
I don't know who's at the wheel anymore.
I don't know what's blowing at my sails,
is it the wind? is it my will? is it?
I don't know who's in command.
I don't know who's in control.
I don't know. anymore. my dear.
and the will, it calls. it screams. it taunts me.
and the wheel, it turns,
and the wind, it blows,
and the will, it breaks,
is it time? is it anger? is it?

I don't dare touch the dial
it is set at eleven. it's always been eleven,
and out of ten, it hurts, all the time and once again,
and out of ten, it throws me down.
I don't dare touch the subject,
it was decided. and I just don't doubt it anymore,
in all certainty, it hurts, all the time and once again,
and again, and again, it breaks me apart.

there have been too many hands handling my heart,
and there have been too many voids inflating it violently,
and it occupies the whole of my chest, now.
I'm always here.
I'm always here.
there have been too many fists punching at my throat,
and there have been too many fingers poking in the wounds,
and it infects the whole of my being, now.
I'm always here.
I'm always here.