Voices

You cannot do the things

that I have done—

and live as a man is meant to live.

I remember my sins,

The ever-present

lens. The compensating control of guilt. An immutable moment.

The hue of after, fresh angry static, dull muting mesh.

Forget calm. There is no comfort in black hell.

Seek happiness?

No—happiness is not yours.

You sperned chance and luck;

you walked a different path out of spite.

End it?

No—your bill is not paid,

You have no begun to make good on your debts.

You have been given life,

and to squander it would be a greater sin still.

Waste born of weakness.

You may not throw your life away,

but it is yours to spend.

Ask, ask again.

Was it really so terrible?

Yes.

You believe so, what else is there to say.

You burned holes in your mind scratching away at that question.

Grow beyond, become else, make the past a distinct and different age.

Or bare the burden of understanding that you hate you.

The voice in your head is yours.

Kill it.