The Course of Him Undone

This is him,
And he is crying and screaming,
And scratching at my back.
He is desperate
And lonely, and grasping at something,
At anything.

This is him,
And he is not happy, and he is not pure,
And he is killing me,
With every moment he does not give me,
What I want.

This is him:
Three strikes, you're out,
Three strikes and you are hanging
By what little you've got left.
Three strikes and you are dead.

When a person hangs,
You cannot be sure at first,
Whether they did it to themselves or not,
Until you find a note, or some evidence.
There is no evidence here to be found,
But there are motivations.

This is him,
And he is leaving marks on my body,
And he is wreaking havoc on my skin,
And he is suffocating me,
From above or behind.

I am stretching myself thin,
Working my body while wasting my soul.
I am losing feeling in my fingers,
I am losing breath, and I cannot tell
If i put me here or not,
But I am hanging,
And there is no turning back now.

And him,
He is wandering,
And he is trying to make sense of things,
That he finds sad.
And he will cry
And he will look with worried eyes,
When he discovers what has been done,
When he discovers, where I come from.