To cry

Quietly imagining a world

In which everything we pretend has become

A reality--unimprisoned, faultless, and free

But that is not reality.

It's a drug, to keep me sated and clumsy.

I drink the death I brew for myself

And wish for a day when I will be

Alone

Unloved, unhated

Unbroken, unformed

Unknown

The realness of a record of wrongs

(Wrongs that mean nothing?)

Is too much for me to grasp

I twist away from what I feel

Because feeling is like a finger, pointed

Ruthlessly at me, accusing

Never relenting

Always tormenting

No one defending

And what does it mean to be free

If freedom is nothing but agony?

Explain to me why, God!

I believe, but so do the demons

Is that what I am?

Are they just like me?

Knowing, but running and mocking and dying?

I want to cry, but you've closed my eyes,

And now I'm alone.

Alone with the one that I hate

More than all