Only Been an Hour"

The fragile cracks of my mind,
decapitated, decayed—
like a festering wound,
a portal to the unknown.

My clouded thoughts
once wore a hollow mask—
a smile painted in panic,
a joke to cloak the hurt.

“Hi, how are you?”
I ask, out of habit,
too scared to leave the comfort
of my hollow home.

A hermit,
lost in the midst of madness,
questioning everything:
Am I normal?
Am I okay?
I must be—
I'm still alive, still pulsing...
But it all feels like a deep ruse
to hide my trauma.

Am I me?
Or am I plastic?

A lone wolf taught to bottle his pain—
because “that’s just how men are raised,” right?

The pressure builds,
and I can’t take it.
One drink—
and my emotions bleed
through the cracks in my façade.
Another drink—
and another...

Now I’ve got my tiger stripes,
I’ve got my confidence.
But I’m numb.
No joy. No fear.
Just silence.

Is this real?

Maybe a line.
Some blow.
A pill.
Blackout.

I wake in a puddle of *****—
shirtless, sweating, shaking—
a corpse with a pulse.

Is this me?

I hear muffled voices
as I come to in a hospital bed.
No questions asked,
just dismissal.
Back home.

Back to silence.

I cry myself to sleep
as the clock ticks,
pounding like a hammer
in my skull.

It’s only been an hour.