A constant itch I cannot scratch.
A constant hole I cannot patch
With the right colour material.
The black on black always looks off.

It's the constant promise of something good.
It's the constant darkness under a hood,
With two strings attached I draw it closed.
Never to escape into the sunlight.

A constant tremor in my electricity.
A constant suffocating toxicity,
It breathes nerves in like waves and washes them back.
Sometimes how I wish it would demolish me.

It's a constant knowing that I'm still not there.
It's a constant trying my best not to care,
About anyone else but myself but that's selfish right?
Because nobody teaches you how to fight the beast that feeds on you (internally- eternally.)