It starts in my stomach, in a withering ball that grows
Finding its way up into my chest, collecting in my rib cage
Where it leaves behind it cold dread, the feeling of an immense weight surrounding, crushing, penetrating...
It spreads down my arms, my legs, numbing my extremeties and making them tingle with false feeling
The monster within me longs to gain control of these lips, these fingers, these toes
An to take them for its own use:
To Scream
To Hit
To Run
It never gives up, not until it consumes my thoughts, until I obsess over trying to stop it
Trying to keep it from dealing striking blows and cutting words
I fear, somewhere, that this beast is my true self, and that it is only hypocrisy that keeps it down.
It started again, in my stomach
I long to cut it out, like a tumor
To throw it up and see the sickness-
If only to find its truth
It's curious, how it subsides whenever you near me-
This very fact makes me want to get closer to you-
In spirit, though, not in person.
When I dream, I always envision you in white
Radiating hope and light
I fear, sometimes, that the ball, the bundle of twisted nerves, is not fleeing when I envision you
but aquiescing, waiting for a chance to smear mud and dirt to obscure your spirit.
I long to join you, to also be clothed in white, but even when I dream I find myself unable to leave the mud-
It remains familiar, and it seems as though I have to keep at least one foot ankle-deep in it or else I'll fall off the Earth.
I have to believe you cause the monster to flee, though-
It is the anti-light-
Not the mud, but the force keeping me stuck there.
I pray you're the one able to pull me out of this pit I've wallowed for myself-
But, most importantly, I pray I don't drag you in here with me.