Documenting my dissent into madness,
And my rise out of the grave.
Deciding what to put down,
And what to hide under the covers
And keep apart from my name.
Reminding me of the things I’ve done
And the things I regret not doing.
Hiding inside these pages
Is me, and all that I am,
All that I’m not, and all that I pretend to be.
This is just an excerpt
Of every single memory
That is tied, a section of me.
It’s a grave wondering
How I’ve ever lasted this long.
Without ripping out my tongue.
Or setting fire to my hair.
It’s surprising that I’m even here at all.