Run, coward, run.

I want an answer.
To a question I don't dare ask.
And I don't dare find the words, even to formulate it.
I don't dare think what I'd like the answer to be.
I leave it inside, hopping it'll rot into nothingness.
Stop haunting my mind.
I don't dare ask, because I did before, and it led to internal madness.
Madness that nearly smothered my every thought.
Madness that was too thick to see past.
Madness of a horrid nature, set to kill.
I want an answer.
Solid and doubtless.
I want proof.
I want no hesitation, or conflict, or confusion.
I want an answer that I can hold, and won't break.
But the question is out of mind.
The question cannot, for the life of me, cannot be spoken.

But I beg for this answer, in vain.

I am a coward.

Run, run again.
See how far I'll get this time before I fall in exhaust.

It's a guaranteed lose of game.
Or a movie, set on repeat.
It never changes, but the players still act as though they've got a chance.
When anyone watching from a far can see perfectly well that it's headed to a black hole.