Why Don't I Write You A Poem

Hell

Give me 1 reason to live and I'll give 2 reasons to die.
They say to stay alive because they are happy.
I'm not.
I live a decent life, love that family of mine.
But I'm losing my fucking mind.
I'll tell you I'm fine.
Of course I'm alright.
He kisses my neck and I pull at his shirt.
He pulls down my pants but it's him that gets hurt.
He asks me why?
I'd rather die than mark my skin, but daddy doesn't want his little girl 6 feet underground.
Mommy wants her baby alive when she's found.
I have everything I need but have nothing at the same time.
My lover lends a hand and I burn him at the touch
He cries out, says I'm asking too much.
Says I'm hurting him.
I warned him not to get close.
I hold the flames of hell in my soul and the demons scratch at my skin, boiling my blood and soiling my brain.
So what's wrong?
I live a decent life, I love my family, but I don't have a decent mind.
I wear a smile for the camera, spreading digital lies.
I'm alright.
I close my doors and run from that make believe world.
If happiness is a choice then someone else is controlling my brain because the things the voices say are driving me insane.
Lock me up?
Send me away?
Why?
So I can be lectured all day by menacing therapists trying to dissect me while I'm still awake and alive?
She whispers to be left alone, a voice that doesn't belong to her.
But no one can hear the devils booming voice echoing in the quiet words so softly spoken.
But she can, and when they leave she cries herself to sleep as he chants horrid strings of bullshit that she can't push away.
It was a mistake to let them leave, but she didn't have a choice.
The devil behind her ears burned her eyes as boiled tears bubbled beneath her vision.
"It's just a phase."
Oh, how she wishes it was.
She let's in the cold air to try to freeze over her hell of a mind, but she lights candles as her bones shake, so she knows that there's light in the darkness of her room.
That the devil isn't alone in her head, that he bears the flames to keep hell warm for decades.
"Take medicine."
She does.
But the more she takes the more she needs. The more she needs the more she wants. The more she wants the more she takes.
"You aren't alone."
She knows.
The voices make great company as everyone else prances around in the light of the day, and as they sleep, she lay awake, traumatized by the images painted behind her eye lids.
Scarring images.
The demons in her bloodstream keeping her alive and healthy.
The devil in her head helping her body function.
The flames of hell pumping blood through her body.
Those menacing therapists trying to hold her close as she falls apart in front of them.
The only one trying to hurt her is herself.
A tragedy written in the clouds.