Every storm 
that has
erroded
at me,
the weight
of every
blizzard
on my back,
it has led to this.
This
is
it.
Here 
is where
I crumple,
I collaspe,
where I break.
A sharp 
collection of 
imperfections,
of smothered 
loathing;
it has 
transformed.
Something so
dark
so 
pure.
All 
daggers
from the
outside,
all
daggers
from the
inside
stab at the
centre
of me.
I'll spell
it out 
for you
because you're 
obviously
blind
and you've always
turned
from my words
'cause they trip
over your mind.
I
hate
myself.
And I
would
unwind
completely
feel the
liberation
of coming
undone.
I 
would
cease,
stop,
finish.
I 
would
give
up.
But 
there is an
illumination
and I cling to it
desperately.
His Love,
my bleeding secret
yet
my only
tourniquet.