Not a Human

I have once pulled out my hair. Eaten my tongue and sliced the skin. Closed my throat and-hanging-flailed. Cross the Styx in death's boat I've ridden. Dying-slowly-with bones weak and frail by darkness and despair as I see no light. My heart weighs heavy for the test it failed: too sick to be a human, quite. I have danced to the tune of Pan, and sang a song to the Man in the Moon. Tossed off my clothes and naked I ran, to my grave as I face my doom. Dark closing in on the left and right, as I close the doors to my tomb. A human? Hah! Not a human quite. I have felt the cold steel of chains. My wrists internally raw. Grit my teeth in all my pain- in my face, 'tis the Horned One you saw. I have abandoned this hopeless flight, and been lost in a sea of flaws. Too flawed to be a human, quite. I have once been clear as air: Invisible, yet you breathe. As air, I am treated rarely ever fair. You walk through me all the while I seethe. I am nothing-you are immune to my plight, for in me you will never believe. For I will never be human, quite.