Those voices in my head will follow me to the poisoned gourd

They listen to the sermon of my misery and pain

My altar is bleeding

Their praises are like chocolate and I'm totally addicted

I'm a fangirl in heat for my cult following

The tables have turned like tides in the glow of the burning ember moon

I'm a classic knight in awe of the kingdom

My compound is swelling with believers

The field of promise is creeping up the nape of my neck at a falsetto pitch

Those itchy, corrosive skin cells spell the factors of something building and it is fame

A sadistic notion I didn't think was going to find me hiding from it in the shadows

This cult of turning tables has me twitching, lurking and dying from the pressure of being an idol, an ideology beyond my worth, a fan of fan of a friend of a fan friend

Am I disappearing or evolving into a celebrity?

I am me and maybe that's who I want to be

I'm scared my uniqueness is going to make me.

I think it's already made me.