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Knifepoint.
Standing in a blank abyss knowing there is little or nothing that will stop the slicing turmoil from leaving gaping wounds in your psyche. Too scared to move, too wise to believe that I can stop the pain.No thrashing, no fighting, no words; it only makes it worse. Twitching fingers tightening a grip on a blade that I do not want to hold. An anger penetrating my mind so profusely that it leaves me wanting the burning sensation to embed deeper into my fingertips, to score my flesh with its icy flame and to make me its victim. To make me my own victim who means something.

Arson.
Caught in the middle of a swirling flame that I began. Falling rapidly into the embers of my own creation at  a break neck speed that is impossible to stop. Hugging my torso tightly to stop the flames from pouring out and protecting others from from the lick of my reality. Matches jump and spark in my hand, the flint calling to me to burn harder, to hit with more gusto and I collapse into a suspension of arguing minds.

Treason.
Being a prisoner between warring mindsets of control and ignorance. Not daring to let myself slip and yet allowing the pain to pour out on to anyone that is close enough to take it. Wanting to lock myself away and realising there is no way I can detach from everything that has kept me stable and someone who is something.


Crimes of my disease crawl up my throat and drown me in self made confusion at the smallest trigger. Throwing everything I once knew and once relied on into a swirling parody of repeating bullshit.

I've been here before. I know this path and how the land lays, and yet...

I am nothing.