There is a fire inside,

burning still.

Dark is the ash

and red is the flame

that delivers me ill.


So quiet I’ve been keen keeping,

like a prey for its kill.

But now I’m engulfed

and my blackened sin has over-spilled.


I am so tired,

so worn thin,

that I keep collapsing

and falling,

again and again.


The things I carry

have become too heavy.

They have pulled me apart,

rupturing the seams.


I can hold them inside

no longer.

Like jagged knives,

they split me open

and expose me to the world



A high price I pay

for hiding those lies.

Crafted  in delusion and

false sympathy.

They took me over

and stole everything,

presenting me empty

to a hungry crowd of apathy.


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