Pantomime

To Whom It May Concern.

I am paralyzed by my urn.

I am encapsulated by my demons.

Fluent in the language they're speaking.

There they are, ever-present and distinct.

I can see them, and I'm not required to blink.

What can I do, what salvation to take.

Where can I go, have I earned a break?

I feel as though I deserve my strife.

I feel I am the blade, I am the knife.

If this is true, if I control my tumult.

Why don't I change, or seek a different result.

Pain is my companion, I love it so much.

I have grown to accept its familiar touch.

Now that I have determined my role is prominent,

I will do all I can to ease my torment.

Or perhaps I will maintain, I will not deviate.

I, however, have accepted my fate.

I will travel in the dark, alone and confined.

Screaming and yelling, a pantomime.