The Beast

This monster is my one last source of creation, but it is also my one true source of destruction. These words I speak of fluent anguish, there are the thoughts of the one true terror that conceals itself in my heart as I gasp for air. I can only hold this beast under the flood of emotion for so long before it breaks my attempts to kill us both, spewing my hatred for this life I lead into the open. This thing that eats away at my existence has no name, no personality, and no mercy. It grabs hold of every precious thing I come in contact with, and breaks it the second I become too attached. This is my letter to you, whoever you are, begging for your help. These are my words I bleed onto the paper, not those of this monster. I’m trying to break fee, break out, but every attempt leaves me bleeding and hopeless on the floor, too tired and defeated to stand back up. This terrible curse that devours every scrap of sanity left in me feeding on the emotion I hungrily express through my pen. The only way I can starve the beast is by holding it inside, but when it gets too much it breaks our harder than before. It’s anger and hidden animosity for this world tear away at my heart and my soul before floating into the cold night. It’s taste for tears runs through my veins, and when it seems impossible to draw them from those around me, it feeds on my own. It’s voice screams at me to do it, you sick bastard, your of no importance to anyone that matters. Then, at night when I should wish to finally fall asleep, this thing eats my mind in the form of the nightmares too dark to repeat. Tearing at me when I am most vulnerable , no mask could hide this fear, no sin could feed it enough. This is my confession of the most terrible secret I keep, of the one that lives in my head until it manages to break my control.