Deep inside, if you were to somehow strip off the suffocating layers of festering corruption spawned from years of repping and depression, if you were to unravel me, sift through my pages, unearth the feelings that I’ve learned to bury deep inside and keep locked away in the dark, out of reach for myself and the world, why, then you would find that I’m actually a dainty little flower, fragile and wilting but still full of love, and yet nobody will ever know because when they look at me, they just see a scary, hulking man with dead and sunken eyes that seem to signal to stay away, to leave him to his cadaverous trot, until at last he collapses under the crushing weight of the world, to be left in a meager grave, austere as the world that failed him, letting the autumn leaves adorn his final bed, unmarked, unknown, forgotten.