Who Am I?

Alex, you chose Hell. If the mask fits too well, eventually the face forgets it was ever bare. From my heartbeat hammering me, through my ribcage, I built a cage out of survival, living where the time goes then forgetting I was free to leave through the line-bars of this whole page. Sometimes the person I miss most is the version of me I never became. Perhaps one day I could back away.

I’ve stared so long into my darkness in me, it started asking me for advice and I answered back. I walked through this Hell of my own making, not to escape it—but to drag something holy and full of holes out with me. All these ghosts I carry, pocket riding, which ones were ever alive? The tales of an unethical life.