I choke on the words tht fill up my head.
Panic it rises to step on my neck,
to hold back the things that need to be said.
Things I should speak, but end up writing instead.

Questions I know that I must vocalize.
Like bile inside, determined to rise.
Choking them down, I internalize,
convincing myself of my own stupid lies.

Delusional, dysfuctional, sick in the soul.
Unstable, unable to ever be whole.
Broken and beaten, my minds on a roll,
to bury any light in a dank empty hole.

Lost to an endless beautiful ache,
distressed by the shattered void left in my wake.
Pieces of hope that are blackened by pain.
Never again shall I truly be sane.

There's beauty in darkness, or so I've been told.
But the darkness in me that has taken it's hold
is ugly and toxic, burns down to the bone.
It creeps up the veins, a disease ridden mold.

These pitiful lies serve in a special way.
They keep hidden everything that I should say.
Hide and seek is their favorite game.
Hiding me is the ultimate play.

This is my choice to make up these things.
To excuse myself from chasing my dreams,
or proving my truth by facing the seams
that make up the corpse of all that is me.

Stitches to show that I'm not at all perfect.
Facing that truth for you should be worth it.
Choosing to speak, to face you in person,
might just be salvation for the me that I torment.