it coils inside you like a rope, frayed and burning
every nerve fibre on edge, sparking, fizzing, vibrating
you feel like you are not human, only a catalyst for temptation—greed, gluttony
your hands shake with the weight of your own hunger and indecision
“it’s not worth it” a voice says to you
it’s not your own, yet it does not belong to another
the fluorescent rays of the auditorium flicker, much like your own resolve, slowly dying, fading out into nothingness
your resolve a false god—something you hold onto, to prove that yes, you’re trying
you’re fighting a war, but your heart is tired
your armour crumbles around you
you reach out to your god—to pray, or beg?
the once solid image begins to falter
did it ever really exist to begin with?