Hail and many praises to The Saint of Hunger, sacred master of my every waking day and move. Atonements to you, I realize are pricey. With a golden, thorny halo adorning your swelling head, you beckon to me to do your biding.
Vicious saint. Eater of flesh and healthy hearts, only immeasurable sacrifice satisfies your ravenous cravings. An insatiable mouth in belly, six times in proportion to the size of your distorted body. Flesh salmon stone, immutable, marble frame. You cancerous infirmity, what a vile and manipulating affliction you have striven to become.
Vain mistress of deceit, I did not ask to be singled out by you. Why me? Is this my cross to bear or a stigmata visited upon me? Controller of self-mutilations, why have you cast a distortion of lenses on me, buried in my ever burning brain?
A creeping larcenist in the depths of night, leaving hidden cicatrices, is what you are. Voracious need for appeasement and gratification, you have no repentance for pilfering my life and scorching my dreams. You've managed to turn me into a despondent zombie, under the demandful whispers of your egotistic whims.
This villainous saint, my own personal misguiding guru, has wrapped horse blinders over my glazed eyes. She lurks in the shadows of my spoiling mind, left on an alter to rot in a decaying state. When's my next fix?
Exemplar of sheer selfish fulfillment of needs. Needful entity, with spiteful, malicious desires. To summon you by your other names; I call you Longing, Thirst, Yen, Ache, Senora Pangs, Twinge, Throes. Pure Dread, above all, is what you are.
Pinned like a beetle under scrutiny, I am a scarab grasping at grains of sand in wailing winds. A reclusive shadow of a former envisioned self, dwindling into dust. "NOT GOOD ENOUGH", my brain suggests while suffering at her majesty's barbed mercy. I am infinitely petrified in the amber of her directed mediocrity, at me.
Branded permanently with the searing A of average. Cauterizing rampant dreams of grandiosity. Elusive blueprints once danced on crackled, antiquated walls. Splintering cohesiveness; now blown asunder by squalls of inadequacy.
Will she ever loosen her deathly grip on me? Will I ever find the right moment to sneak away into the safety of anonymous night? Will my face ever be expose to the warmth of the sun again? Or am I forever bound by her whims, and desires over my faculties? The breakaway is proving to be harder and more sobering then I had thought.
I can regain control.
I am in direct and complete control.
Control is my first name.
