Why must I show my inner shame, so outwardly?

So vividly neon, glowing like a scarlet letter.

Burning through my skin.

Searing a permanent mark of the evil which is me.

I'm not worth a cry of help now.

I'm not worth a breath of air.

I just sit in wasted space.

Contemplating all of my follies.

Letting them churn and simmer.

And burn so hot, they freeze.

And stay frozen in time, preserved forever.

What horror. What pain.

My worthlessness revealed. My goodness -

of little worth when evil rapes and maims.

Stupidity - my calling.

Potent as pure salt grains on an acidic tongue.

Retardation of the spirit; the mind; the soul.

Deformed morals, twisted crookedly.

A disease of no other kind. Bitter tasting.

That disease which stretches slowly.

Burning joints and muscles of the mind.

A depravity so translucent.

An individual so forlorn.

A dying purpose. Drifting slowly.

Out of reach, the fabric torn.

The fabric of time - ripping - the threads prickly.

Fraying fabric - becoming a bigger hole to fall into.