In solitude, I grapple with these binding chains,
A burdened soul familiar with these well-worn pains.
My narrator, meticulous in every neurotic critique,
Leaves no action unscathed, no effort unique.
A disease named perfection it courses through my veins,
Even in the midst of the sun live personal hurricanes.
Every flaw, a dagger to my burdened core,
Each battle is a campaign in an internal war.
Pen grips paper, a vice-like hold so tight,
A symptom of this infection, a relentless fight.
I carve my belittling into my soul deep inside,
Whatever you could point out, I've already identified.
Restless and unwell until it all is fit as 'just right,'
This pursuit consumes my days and haunts my nights.
Others dismiss, claiming it's all in my head,
Yet I sense truths lurking in words left unsaid.
In shadows between lines, I berate what doesn't exist,
An invisible link to the cold metal against my wrists.
The chains that bind, I yearn to break free,
Embracing flaws and scars and letting myself be.