My perception of myself, I wonder if it's true,

It makes me want to hurt myself until I'm black and blue.

I hate the way I look so much I'd like to gouge my eyes,

Then leave my aching, rotting heart and feed it to the flies.

Anxious, aching insecure. Jesus, I'm a mess,

Wondering how much longer I can take this stress.

Always on the highest alert, waiting to drop dead,

My middle name I think I'll change to panic, fear, or dread.

Just like a death row inmate-though I don't need a cell,

A prisoner in my mind-making my own hell.

Isolated from everyone, trembling and alone,

Even in a crowded room, it chills me to the bone.

Putting up a 'decent' front to hide all my despair,

Fearing that my spirit's broke-way beyond repair.