Псих

My face looks like a matryoshka doll

Painted, picture-perfect

Childlike, innocent.

Some tell me I look like a baby

Others whisper in my head that I look eerily childlike

Everyone looks at my face

Sees nothing underneath

Thinks I'm flat, boring

What little do they know.

My fingers aren't green,

Not natural

My hands aren't innocent,

Not childlike

My nails are long and sharp,

Not angelic and short—

I'm reaching the sun

Strobed in red light

Bloody red as an Osiria

I can't get down nor do I want to

There are voices in my head

But I want them there

I'ma stretch out my fingers

See my nails?

Watch them edge towards your eyes

Don't look down, look at my face

Like how you've torn out my brains

I'll rip out your eyeballs—

Hammered skull,

Smushed eyeballs,

Tilted nose,

Missing lips,

Broken bones—

Those are what you gave me

I'll make sure that's what you get

Here's a little Spirytus

It'll help you through the pain