I’m splitting at the seams.

I’m slowly losing reason. And I think it’s funny how I alienate myself into insanity: how I become a concept without any proof, deeming all my achievements credible without any validity.

And I understand that people are people, but surely it comes to a point where you become less than that once you start filling your eyes with jealousy like a selfish pig? Once you start feeding off of the scraps of nothing but the shame of doing everything wrong—the shame of taking praise as a slash to the throat.

It feels like a joke, and I’m not in on it. It’s an itch… and I scratch the uncomfortable skin until it starts to bleed because I feel like I’m wearing myself wrong.

I speak as if my words make a dent against the narrative, but the words have rotted into slop in my mouth so it’s better kept shut.

And when you perform that ugly ritual over and over…

Horns start poking out from the sides of your head, and your fingerprints start to smooth out, disintegrating your identity as a human within you, with no way to get it back.

Your tongue becomes tied, your stomach knots, and you exile yourself away from those you’ve grown inferior to, and from the audience you have convinced that you are one of them, if not better.

Because you wish you were a human who had value,

a human who serves purpose,

a human.

But once the ritual ends, nothing will change.

Your blood stays the same color, it’ll spread and stain—and you’ll try to make sense of it all, holding tightly to the concept you haven’t proven.

Because everyone is already convinced… except you.

The Frontman