I've discovered Hell, and the truth is, It isn't a place you go, it's a sickness. It resides within your bones And its scaffolding is made from trauma. The only fire you'll find is from the white-hot flashbacks That leave you drenched in sweat that smells like smoke. No-one lives there except you and your enemies, And your enemies are fragments of history, unable to be killed. Your mind is the devil that subjects you to punishment That you can't help but be convinced that you deserve, And escape is a notion kept only for tears; Everything else remains trapped. Hell is being held within the cage of your own body And killing yourself trying to break free.