A Result of the Dark

Pounding is the pain,
rhythmic metronome.
And if only you could spare a glance
of naked flesh beneath the cloth.
You'd see every single battle lost
in a seemingly never ending war.

Searing is the spite,
consistent plague.
And if only you could see
every broken mirror that has been made.
Know that the sight of this body
repulses me.

Destructive are the demons,
lulling illusions.
And if only you knew how many pills I take,
how many bottles I empty-
just to keep myself here.
To keep temptation at bay.

Selcouth is this cynic,
embracing demise.
Losing ones' mind, falling slowly;
giving in to what's been known as the enemy.
Stars collide with darkness as sanity fights lunacy-
And if you could only see-

this number twenty-three.

Perhaps this could all cease.