Is a four letter word.
I don’t like four letter words.
I don’t like life. Living life.
Except it’s not living. It’s enduring.
It’s surviving something that I don’t want to survive.
Life is hell. My own personal hell. Tormented by the demons of self loathing, self hatred, burning in the fires of emasculated self esteem.
I hate. I hate myself. I hate that I hate myself.
The screaming in my soul, the endless self recrimination flaunting itself, capering, cavorting before my eyes like some cheap whore.
I hate being. Being here. Being without choice. A forced being.
Enduring the being.
Existing without purpose. Existing without joy. No existence. No existence at all.
Torture myself. Despoil myself. Cutting, scratching, scraping. Release the pressure. Purge myself. Self flagellation. Sweet river of blood.
Come forth thy Crimson river.
Flow quickly. Flow, spurt, ooze, thick rivulets, thin streams. Flow on.
Pain. The pain on the flesh cannot be measured by the pain within. There can be no comparison. Skin merely wounds, soul cries in its agony.
I. Am. Being.
Bring me sweet darkness. Envelope me in its arms of shadow. Embrace me to its bosom of the night.
Take me now.
Do never let me go.