Standing disjointed, superimposed onto reality, I am committed only to failure and avoiding self-actualization. Convinced of only my imperfection and impending insanity.

I wait. I wait for someone, anyone to recognize my poor impression of a human mimicking emotions I do not naturally feel. I own only anger. The anger is all mine, rising, flooding my veins with acid, consuming my heart and burning its way to my brain.

My mind throbs with voices I cannot always identify. “Am I crazy”?

Another chimes, “You are fine. Crazy people are certain they are not”.

A retort, “Yes, but normal people do not wonder at all”.

My ears ring with self-doubt. I am not beautiful. I am not special. I am not smart. I am not kind. Simply, I am not worthy of the space I occupy, the oxygen I consume or the flesh on my bones.

Nightmares lay eggs in my subconscious. Carnage, blood and betrayal entrench waking moments. I wonder what other people, normal people, daydream. Calculated carelessness moves me from one activity to the next. I brace for impacts that never materialize, envision fires that never ignite.

Idle chitchat makes me flinch. I am awkward in the moment, searching for the proper response. Pregnant pauses reveal my discomfort. My exposure makes my stomach turn. When will be called out? Imposter! Fool! But there is no rebuke, no relief.

Where does the fury come from? It does not matter. If you take way the anger what will be left of me? Will I fade into oblivion or will I be tamed, docile, domesticated, repulsed by me own self-destruction? Will anyone even notice? If my disappearance is acknowledged, will it be with sadness and loss for those I leave behind or will I rot and decay as a footnote?

In the end I am lost. There is no parole from hell.