Inconsiderate amusement scrounges blistering bubbles to froth and churn.
Burning, sizzling, lighting afire with inconsistent bursts of rage.
Random explosions
strike terror into hearts.

Beating down with each blast.
Beating sense into you.
Relentlessly
beating

you

unconscious.

Crouched into a fetal position.
Pleas are ignored and scorned.

Say anything.
Tell anyone.
Ask for help and the load will double.
Triple.
Multiply.
Continuously.
Until you curse yourself for considering such a thing.

Every moment.
In every day.

Every.
F-ing.
Day.

Pity blossoms amidst decaying gardens.
Ensnaring any last trickle of light with starved fingers.
Silently mourning.
What used to be.

What I used to be.