Finding Myself, Amid Screams of Pain

And we're back.
Talking to ourselves.
Snapping in demonic,
hateful tones.
While voices chitter and
laugh in the back of my skull.
"Haha, you've done it again you
stupid bastard."
"You fuck-up."
"Spineless, creepy little shite."
We never did learn, did we?
Wondering aloud and on paper as
we rake taloned digits across the flesh of our arms.
Never learned our place.
Away from others.
Outside, outsider.
The one not good enough for
anyone to want.
Cockroach in human form.
A pest that just won't fucking die.
When will we learn
that's what we are?
How many times must we
go through this shitty song and dance
before we wake up and
smell the sulfur?
This world is a hell.
These people, our punishment.
All set about us for eyes to see,
yet when we reach out to touch oh
how they slip away into the dark.
Were they ever real?
She wasn't.
And we couldn't change that if
we had all the time there is to give.
And if this is a hell,
there will be centuries more
in which to suffer.
If this is a hell,
then we have been welcomed home
with open arms, having woken from
our sweet delusions of happiness.
Who brought us here?
Who dragged us back to this abyss
called reality?
Who hurt us and
carved out the circle anew?
Not a ghost.
No, not her ghost.
But the same illusion in a different skin.
And same as ever we were entranced.
As ever, we fell.
As ever, we play the victim,
"dragged".
Pathetic is all that we are.
Clinging to wishes and phantoms,
fantasies and memories.
Embrace what we are.
Alone.
Bitter.
Screaming for vengeance against actuality
for the crime of not meeting expectation.
Screaming and pacing.
Screaming and beating the walls of our cell.
But always
screaming.
At one with ourselves when our throat's aflame from
roaring in the face of this wretched existence.
At our best when in
the most agony.
Home, when we
hate ourselves.