I trip and stumble,
and as it slips,
I fumble my fragility
and my ability
to hold it together.
But it drops and cracks,
impossible to retract
the putrid purge
of the pitiful urge
to erase my existence.
Shamefully, I scramble
to scrape up the shambles
of my broken identity,
exposed in humility,
pathetic vulnerability.
But it oozes and gurgles,
my inner turmoil,
the raw intensity
of what makes me ugly:
the demon inside me.
