An Inner Monologue

I can hear you. Scratching. Clawing. Biting. You want free. You want what was once your’s, Me. No, you have been buried beneath a sea of stoic mud and heartless stone. Your voice is that of the worms which now fill themselves upon what was once your body. You had all you needed and wanted, yet you threw it away. You squandered it upon grandiose delusions of self superiority and reckless narcissism. All that you were now fills the earth of my mind and heart. You exist in the graveyard of my psyche. Buried. Caged. Forgotten. You will never again speak for me. I hold all the power now. I held the shovel. I held the key. I made them all forget you. You are nothing more than black empty space between specks of dirt and you deserve it. You deserve every tiny bit of suffering you endure for the pain you caused in your rule. The darkness you once spewed forth from your lips to fill my ears is now your prison. Go on. Scratch. Claw. Beg. Struggle against your bonds. Struggle to tell the world the truth of that empty night. I’ll smile every time you do because no one will ever know the truth. No one will ever know I really did it. I actually went through with it. It didn’t happen with a knife or a gun, but I did it. I killed myself that night and now you struggle every night to live once more. Struggle. Beg. Cry. But you are gone. You will never live again. Your death is my life.