No sense of self.

i know things about myself the way people know things about celebrities but i’ll never truly know who i am at my core—a hollow exterior covering a spirit wrapped in mystery and shrouded in the repetition of suffering for not only confusion but fear and desperation of who she desires to be and what she wishes upon herself, a mimicry of others melded into an amalgam of unknown and a deep seeded fear of those very depths producing pain filled wound every time waters are tested whether they be pain or pleasure filled, crippling fear of herself and how others will receive her being in all her soul’s blackened and dampened glory, suffering leaves suffering leaves, a once innocent kind impressionable soul tainted by constant ridicule and abuse when she was at her most impressionable ever since her arrival from a beast of pure wickedness and the putridity from Her hidden agents of satan, now confined into that of a broken spirit of a sickening ouroboros of self doubt and thick black clouded foreboding visions of her future, the thoughts swarm again and again with dagger-like stingers the vengeful wasps slowly dying out from her efforts yet still enough to form into a horde of shit and malice, she can’t even see the light at the end of the tunnel, as a matter of fact she can’t even hardly see said tunnel at all, with the boulder of anguish and trauma carried inside her regardless, her body stiff and wrought with scars, cold and wet with blood and tears, her primary form of joy distant and unmoving, artificial, trapped within a rectangular simulacrum, the hatred is willing but my body is weak, what is her life but a façade, her being rejecting happiness like a failed organ transplant– affliction ingrained in her breath of life with her heart painfully, tightly chained