It matters not who or what assaults me nor how innocent I might be, it is futile to blame when I ultimately still need to respond. The obstacles I face may be unjustly out of proportion to all others, nevertheless nothing reduces my responsibility to choose my next step. Nothing. To point the finger away from myself is a cop out. To look within requires the hero's courage.

I rage against myself. All enemies are illusions and pathetic distractions from my own betrayal of me.

I'm in a foul mood.
Again.
Bites.

I don't want to be here. I don't know where I would want to be either.
Somewhere my presence is desired and pursued.

A dull ache presses its advantage against an already weary mind.