Shrivelling

Maybe it's just me trying to explain my insecurities through others. I'll lash out, accuse, scorn, dismiss. I'll be brutal because I'll be scared. Scared to let lose the hatred that stays, ready to spring forth, desperately restrained. There's a sick feeling in my stomach that wants me to throw up. It's venomous, it shouldn't be there, it screams out. It's not you, it's the thing you drink religiously, everyday, with chemist like precision. Its what that tastes almost sickly sweet in it's quality. It's slowly poisoning you, smoke filling up would be better. This is sly, it creeps up on you. You're shrivelling up, every day, your eyes hollowing, your breath shorter, as you rasp out nursery rhymes. Can't you feel your hair grow rough underneath your touch?