its sick of me right
to be up into the depths of night
wanting a diagnosis, a pill to pop,
morning and night
fixing this rot

the rot is me, for that is what i am
i am broken, bruised yet on the outside
i am well.

         well - in a good or satisfactory manner

except for tarnishing scars, carved into my back
faded into a splitting grey
'not my colour really darling' you say
in some grasp, clawing your paws skyward

imposter syndrome plagues daily
clinical trials never proved nor questioned
prognosis given minutely
updates routine
yet it all feels
deafening

like shouting into the abyss

calling meaningless names
and waiting for an imaginary crystalline rope to haul you up
a trojan horse, is what you are

hauling conditions at your enemies, in some screaming fight
when inside, it is just a ruse, a cry for help.
oh how could i not help, they think

yet when the rope snaps, they never put their ear to the abyss
instead chastise the creator.