I'm locked down in a dungeon--

It's the oppression of self-hate.

It's trampling my heart

And breaking my ribcage.

This is the offspring of

A swirling, mindless mess,

'Cause my mind is restrained

By the fear of what I am.

What am I, anyway?

I'm not so human-like.

I've got roaches in my ears

And termites in my blood.

They crawl all day and night,

Feasting on my cells,

Destroying my desire,

And every last detail.

"Detail of what," you ask.

Detail of who I am:

The creature that lives,

The one unclassified.

Or maybe it is classified

As one unidentified.

An alien among the local

Humans, so ignorant.

I try to blend in,

And so far no one's noticed

That I'm a ghastly beast

Full of bugs and rodents.

Didn't I mention them,

The rodents in my skin?

Their fur keeps me warm

despite my cold exterior.

Now, for posterity,

Of course, I should sum up

My experience as an unknown,

Blending in with everyone.

As hard as I may try,

I never will become

A human like the rest of them;

I couldn't even pass as one