The dark part of my soul staggers across the black hills towards the cliff face and there it sits.
This journey to confront myself was inevitable.
I was right: I don’t like what I see.
My fear consumed me and killed the harvest.
I sit hungry on the precipice, thirsty for hope and a warm thought.
But I have the capacity to be cruel, to retreat to this lonely moor and lick my own wounds.
This, my black silk cocoon that snags at a scratch and eats my skin raw.
The self-loathing silence of the darkness made me drunk and careless with others, but I wanted to drown them in the ink, to throw them down the cliff side so I could watch them break and splutter from above.
So here I sit, famished and alone, safe in my victimhood and exposed in my despair.
I rule a world of hopelessness and until I relinquish control I will probably rest here in turmoil.