The sickness is now self inflicted;

the suffering, cyclical. I cannot know
but must trust, and the world is dark
without sun. Before I write the words
I must live them; I no longer recognize 
these portraits of myself.
 
It is nearly July now. The heat
is oppressive and the cloudless skies
still beg of rain. It’s Sunday, the day 
of the word inspired, but I find no 
spirit. I climb lower and lower still.
 
This beast of wanting now lives
in me. If no one loves me, well,
at I least hope they feel something—
pity or fear, idealization or disgust. 
 
Maybe all I’m missing is a diagnosis,
or maybe I’ve always been this thing
untamed, wallowing in my self
grandeur, begging for a forgiveness
I neither need nor deserve.