Loneliness claws at my insides
scraping with talon-like fingernails,
engraving the same message
over and over again:

"You'll never be enough.
If somebody wanted you,
wouldn't they have found you by now?"

Confidence is our masquerade,
dancers hiding behind their porcelain shields,
telling themselves they're fine
until lies drip crimson.

"I'm not sad, I'm not scared.
I know what I'm doing.
I'm happy with my life."

Our pet demons watch from every angle,
whispering as they read what's in our thoughts.
We fed them with our misery,
tamed them with our complacency.

"They keep trying to move forward,
but what's the point
of struggling through the sludge?"

Hands reach out,
will you accept them?
Marinating in your despair
has been your existence for so long.

Is it too late to change that?