As I pick myself up from the pavement, the taste of dirt and blood fresh on my tongue, I laugh bitterly, and a grim smile takes my lips. I realize that I'll never be good enough. Ever. I can give myself wholly, selflessly, until there is nothing left but a cold, empty shell, and I still won't be good enough. I can work until exhaustion and sickness take me, and my youth and vitality slip away, devoured by the monster within, growing, spreading death and decay, and I still won't be good enough. I can love truly, endlessly, until the thieves and liars prey upon my heart and divide it up like lions at the slaughter, and I still won't be good enough.

The nightmares will never stop, because I will never feel safe again.