The Hour

There comes an hour now and then–
Your thoughts scrape at the inside of your scull:
Rusty, restless.
All skin constricts and binds your body,
Forcing every blemish to scream and claw its way 
To the forefront of your mind
And nothing can be peace.
Like the feeling that springs up in your throat
When your eye finds a malformed beast,
Weary and bloodied from a needless hardship,
So do you react at the mention of your body.
And your mind:
An emptiness where echoes of past happiness
Rattle unconvincingly like the tail of a dying snake. 
Every new person who encounters you in this hour
Sows seeds of unimaginable hate under your skin
With their well-meaning smiles and hollow words.
Loathing in a lather that grinds dryly on your skin,
Rubbing raw the endless layers of your ancient, frail pages.
What a beautiful thing it would be
To yield the self
To safe, still silence.
It is not, however, the depression that concerns
But the fullness and the bulge,
The fatness and the absolute convexity
That is my abhorrent form.
It is repulsive to me. 
I am repulsive to me.