Cyanotic.

Do not try to comprehend,

my dearest Friend - this is the Hell.

All my bruises swell.

I tamed the fire with ice,

my vice. I breath because
the grief withdraws.

On this awkward stage

I cannot play my rage.

Etereal outlines - 

two-faced butterflies

round off my clavicle

and restart the cycle;

chop off any thorn

from my core forlorn.

And I shudder with disgust:

what have I done to myself

to make this mirror my must...

Constantly cold and blue,

I reach out my dazed hand.

Of the way back I have no clue.