Well

I hold my finger down on the Backspace and watch my poetry die. The screen is clean again. Nobody needs to read that mess of indecisive words. I feel the warmth of the blanket over my shoulders. Focus on that. My hands shake and that voice repeats itself in my head "Why didn't you take your meds today?". Pressure builds inside my body from my toes to my fingertips. Is this real? My mind grips the cold, numb, infinite space. Behind the bars of my body, I search for the key inside me.

"Drive home before it's too late. Drive home before you can't drive anymore. GO!"
"GO NOW!" but, instead of leaving, I type these words.
"Why am I doing this?"
I wonder why I insist on staying here. I wonder if I can unlock this cage with the keys on this machine? If I keep picking at them, will they find a pattern that leads to my release?

"This is self-obsession, let her go."

I remember the old woman who said she was God. She told me I was going to cry but she was wrong. I can't cry anymore. The tears are still there, they're leaking out of my skin.
"Ego, is that you?" I ask her, "Can you hear me?" And I wonder if that's her, that silent sound. I wonder if that's her, screaming so loud for so long that I have become deaf. I listen to the clock ticking, ticking like my heart-beat.
The pain returns. Where does pain come from?

http://www.etymonline.com/word/pain

Memories are waiting for me down there, in the well. I'm afraid to go back there. I'm afraid to meet her, that ghost, who used to be me. She thought she was a good person, but she was just like everyone else.

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone is here with me, now. Everyone I have ever known I have only known through the filter of me. ​How do I get out of here!?"

"What did you mean when you said that she thought she was a good person but she was just like everyone else? Did you mean that nobody is a good person?"

"I mean that everyone thinks they're a good person."

"Do you think you're a good person?"

"No."

"Aren't you part of everyone?"

"Yes! If I don't think I'm a good person that means there must be other good people who don't feel like they're good enough people."

"But the way I made that statement reveals that I do know I'm a good person but I think I could be a better person if I could figure out what to do."

My chest aches and I feel my stomach wanting to lurch. I watch my psyche stumbling for another direction, away from the discomfort of self-realization.

"Get back here, we're not finished yet."

I feel my psychological​ feet slip off the edge. Gravity rises and the water is cold. I remember the dream I used to have every night. The water is filled with children, but some have grown now. Now the water is filled with people. I realize for the first time that I cannot save them, I am one of them. I am one of my brothers and sisters.

I feel the hate vanish.