It writhes under my skin.
Neon blues and reds and oranges,
lime greens and viscious pinks
licking at my organs,
singing my hair from the inside,
leaving me invisibly scorched.

This is my disease.

You think you know,
you've no idea
of the power in my body,
of the strength of my limbs,
of the knowledge concealed in my mind,
and you will never know
the darkness I feed deep inside.

This is my disorder.

I crave the speed of the road,
urging on deviant behavior.
The concrete racing under the tires
frees my wicked soul.
The stability of the fragile vehicle,
the wind in my fingertips and
the loud music pounding at my ears.

This is my ailment.

I revel in the ability to say no
when I could smoke myself stupid
swallow more pills that you ever dared
and lose myself
among the psychedelic colors
and thoughts I lost
when I decided not to give in.

This is my sickness.

I desire the deep burgundy
of my very own blood.
The metallic liquid seeping
through my skin and down
down down my pale skin,
leaving flaking tracks of disturbance
of hate, pain, disease.

This is my malady.

I need the look of shock
on all of your faces
the day I pick up all my belongings
and leave you in the dust
where I know you will remain,
too terrified, too trapped,
to get out of the lives you swear
you hate.

This is my syndrome.

And you will be left in my wake,
in the wreckage,
of the tornado I'll stir up.
Roofs pulled off,
hearts torn apart from loss
and a broken family left
even more snapped and splintered.

This is my disease.