Not that I will ever reach maturity; juvenile paralysis seems to be much more my style. There's a deep resentment for the destruction of self that imposed itself upon the form and function I felt my own; a warping that continues to this moment.
A basic cowardice created from a want of security; a lack of courage concerning the value of my persona; I drag these destructive thorns through my flesh without hope of absolution or release. Full of pity for a pity full soul; too frightened by the thought of a higher hell to look for some lower heaven; the space I haunt holds all the shades of fear needed to color the spectacles of a quivering specter.
If there exists any life to live within such unhallowed hollows, it continues to elude; leaving me to the deadening spirits from without to within.