This is my hell.
The people here are but ghosts,
or rather; memories.
The air reeks of something dead,
something rotting.
A corpse, perhaps?
Or an empty shell
of what I once was.

This is my hell.
No one knows I am here.
Not a soul remembers
who I used to be.
Only I, the broken
I, the weak
I, the fallen
have any recollection
of who I was.

This is my hell.
No eyes can see me.
No ears can hear my screams.
No hands offer comfort.
I have been abandoned
by all who love me.
They cannot see me
where I am now.

Oh, dear reader!
You have seen me!
Heard my cries!
You know of my hell!
Dear reader, I am so alone.
Come, my closest friend, come.
Make this place your home.

Woe is me, dear reader!
Can you not comprehend?
Am I to be alone
until the very end?
Or perhaps you cannot reach me.
Perhaps no others may reside here.
For, my hell, my friend,
is inside my head