With every flick of light
I grow dimmer and dimmer.
Memory tarnished with burn holes
of a grown sinner and I’m scared.

Seeing spots of expired clarity,
I’ll keep numbness at my fingertips.
Insomniacs get more sleep,
so I skip every therapy trip.

Cope with no hope of recovery,
but scarf the midnight stabilizers.
Better days will never stay
when you’re a self loathing sympathizer.

My ears are rendered useless as jargon fills every canal
And my legs are numb from answers I long sought after

“You see this here, this is why you can’t see or hear”

I feel the cold examination table turn into my personal chopping block
For any ounce of salvation left

“And this atypical depression explains your major atypical depression”

White and gray matter riddled with scars and defeat
Proof of my demise makes me nauseous even in my nightmares.

“Speaking of which, here’s why you can’t speak and only twitch!”

My sticky insides were doomed from the start
Faulty workings trying to disguise themselves as functioning parts.

Healthy has become only but a word to me with no meaning
But I long for it’s stale taste and I mourn the loss of every stolen morning

You shouldn't trust my thoughts.
They're beautifully arranged,
but their intent is too dismal

You’ll follow them down,
take notes and listen close
only to be pulled in

But don’t worry!

The antidote is numbing
and soothing, like crackling embers
behind freezing hands

Slow time and unwind,
while your brain resembles
the grease stain on your shirt

Your trivial mind, tribulations,
and trials are silenced,
but only for the time being

My somber mind is paused
And I’m afraid for you when it resumes.

The mask is greater than the man.

Sitting motionless and colorless, you wouldn't dare guess he's fearless
when hiding behind two holes and a nose
He sits a very scared little man.

An anxious and weak, small man.
A man who can't look his server in the eye,
A man who sits nervously on the subway,
The same man that convinces himself five times that he has in fact locked his front door, regardless of the seven times he's checked before.

He's lonely.
Lonelier than the budding flower with no one to enjoy it's beauty
Lonelier than the naïve, bopping teen that truly thought she was loved deeply.

But the disguise he wears keeps him company in dark times.
It reminds him that victims cannot poke fun when you have already poked the victim.

Warm bloodstreams pour from their wounds, soothing the hidden man's very own wounds.

His mask allows him to be free,
even when it's the very thing that keeps him chained.

They say anyone can put on a façade,
but very few men are greater than the mask.

Lace on my thighs and fringe around my neck,
more is revealed than the flowing crimson blood.
Bleeding deeper and deeper with every slowed breath.

Deeper than the girls I see with their shoulders against the wall,
the dream girls with their purple hair and tattered tights.
My neck growing saturated with strawberry nightmares,
but at least they like my tattoos.

I feel the black cats circling my ankles,
cries of hunger and any form of normalcy or stability.
It feels familiar, like a hymn from my childhood
throbbing between my ears.

Overlooking other's carnage is easy, until it's your own.

I don't know what this means, but it comforts me.