Contortion

What I called freedom

you called possession;

the way my body contorted with

the ebb and flow of creation.

What I called dream

you called damnation;

the way my  mind contorted with 

the ways of your beliefs.

What I called pain

you called prevarication;

the way my suffering contorted with

the sharp rapping of my still-beating heart.

What I called joy

you called sin;

the way my happiness contorted with

the happiness of your own.

What I called painting my world,

you called outrageous;

the way my being contorted with

the colors of my words and illustrations.

What is contorted here is your faith in me.

It's contorted in all the wrong ways.

©LJ
27 April 2014 

...for my best friend, Rebecca, who's story inspires this poem.