My soul aches,
Bitter and black and hopeless,
With a mournful longing
For simpler things.
I cower beneath my fear,
Bending broken back
To the oppressive forces of a scarring past
And pour salt into my own wounds.
The ripping of my sanity
Echoes deafeningly
In ears that beg for mercy,
Though they know their cries go unheard.
I never claimed to be an angel,
And though I am no saint,
I'm not the monster you portray me to be.
I am
alone
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