As humans, we have holes.

It is inevitable, and we learn to live with them.

Some stay small, and are ignored.

Some grow, and we are told to hide them

or to be ashamed of them.

That, or have someone talk at or through them.

It never really heals them.

Then others start to notice them.

So we lie about their size

and how much they hurt us.

But we wonder what to do with these holes.

Famous enough, and have cameras shoved through them.

Rich enough, and have them clogged with pills.

The rest of us don't like the way these holes look,

so we think a bigger hole will be better

than many small ones.

We slice the space between, 

a satisfyingly bloody game.

The pain is a distraction,

and addiction,

a dare we give ourselves

seeing how close to the cliff we can go

before we fall right off the edge.

We treat ourselves like grenades,

waiting to blow,

pins pulled the moment we become aware of our flaws.

And life's expectations.

We contemplate the damage we'll cause,

Fire and shrapnel shards imbedded

in the skin of everyone who thought they were helping us.

So we push people away,

but we struggle.

We are iron, them magnets

attracted to the things we want to remove.

These things are said to be carcinogenic to us,

our chance of "survival".

So we take corkscrews to our skin,

wether these corkscrews are 

needles, scalpels,

breaking to fix.

Then they say that we're ruined.

There's no way to win

because we don't control how we play.

Then, we quit.

Nobody knows what it's like,

not playing the game.

I want to find out.