I sat at night before my screen, just to browse,
There I saw him in my house.

I screamed as I looked towards the door,
Saw something crooked, a horror.

I turned on the lights and grabbed a knife,
As I pleaded for my life.

The figure was nowhere to find,
I wondered if it was my mind.

The next morning I went to work,
Wondering where it would lurk,

But then I reached a dead end,
Inside, myself but twisted and bent.

In shock I turned  and ran,
Behind me a distorted man,

He looked just like me,
As I stumbled into a tree.

With pain I see my world fade to black,
Then I awoke in a small shack.

Chained and aching, rain began to pour,
But I was inside, trapped once more.

The rain was warm and deep red,
As I felt my own blood spread.

My bones exposed, I see a smile,
The other me, pulling out a nailfile.

I heard it scratch and creak,
As more blood began to leak.

It took my skin to make its own,
While shattering bone after bone.

The last thing I saw was my face,
As I faded in that wretched place.

Have you ever been in the throes of suffering,
In the deepest trench of the deepest ocean,
Food spoiling to bitter mud in your mouth,
Sand gritting your teeth like a dollar store nailfile,
Water pooling in your throat, suffocating you,
As you fight back from sobbing,
Because you’ve spent your 27th hour lying in bed,
Moving your feet in and out of the greasy sheets,
Trying to manage the hottest cold, and the coldest heat,
Yet body still, eyes fixed on the wall across the room,
Toddler screaming somewhere in the house,
And you wonder how drowning from an atrophied throat
Would be recorded on your death certificate.
Then you pick up your device for reprieve,
Only to have some ******* pontificating
Over whether a 19th century *******
Had a point
About the need
For suffering.