Do you want to talk about it?
Trauma like a black hole
into which everything is drawn,
where merely to survive you must believe
it gets dark before the dawn.
And in strobe-flash memories
grotesque visions you will see,
and it gets dark before the dawn
don’t trust yourself, hear me.
Devils have your interests
and a special place for you,
a paradise of loathing
a heaven pure and true
where you can thrash your broken body
and torture your own mind,
seeking corners of the forgotten
where there’s fuck all left to find.
Where the blows and beatings merge
into frequencies of sound,
that the human ear won’t register
as the fists and head-butts pound.
So when you ask and I don't hear
I hear you all too well,
but I’m silenced by a frozen fear
that keeps me here in hell.