The Book of the Dead.

I chew through my nails, I can't think of help.
My dreams try to lie, they tell me that everything is alright.
I am crawling in my skin again, so I cut my way in.
Fighting myself to live, but pieces of me die in the end.
I am strong having lived through what I have, but I am weak for choosing the things that hurt me further in the end.
I am at an impasse, with no way forward and no way back.