The Monster Gloats

A fight of the inner monsters of people who suffer from mental illness.

It'll be a cold day in hell,

when my heart can beat regularly again.

But I think it's a foolish thing with which to dwell,

to think I could ever be fully cured,

Because this disease has sat and matured. 

My sickness is so hard to find,

with just your eyes. 

What you don't see is the bones that grind,

and a rot so deep in my veins, 

that my clawing fingers could never unchain. 

The sickness starts in the small of my back,

extending to the follicles on my head and pads on my fingers. 

It leaves a numbness in my tongue, on my iris a large crack.

An illness this clever wouldn't let itself be so easy to detect. 

At first glance, you'd never know I was wrecked. 

A hand lives in my throat,

and when I try to talk it likes to squeeze.

Deep inside I feel the monster gloat. 

I can feel it taunt and mock me, twist my insides with a barb wire.

They break me down with breath a vile as lye whilst singing in a jeering choir. 

They'll carve their names into my ribs,

play hide and seek between my vertebra, 

acting like kids.

I can feel them sharpening their teeth in my collarbone,

sitting in my bruised stomach and withered lungs like it's their thrown. 

My skull is etched with my bad thoughts,

stolen out of my mind by the sickness.

Took the half-formed suicide notes and made them pretty little shots, 

Easy to accept, easy to swallow. 

They like to tempt me, "You won't feel so hollow".

For as long as I could stand,

I won't succumb to their seductive whispers. 

And when I do, they claw at my face with their decayed black hands. 

But I would rather stay hollow and mutilated inside, 

then give them my life and will from them to reside.