This Is Not a Cry for Help

I am not well today, and clearly no one can help me.
Being ill, I am ill, and that feels better than feeling better
And only feeling better. I am clearly not well.
Mine is a special case, one I won't soon be cured of,
Of difference from itself, since that alone makes the difference
Between suffering as such, that being what the case is,
And my own case of being, constructed out of a distance
That cries out for help, and is not a cry for help.
My case is special because it's not what the case is.
When I feel what I'm feeling, it is only something felt.
What truly sets me apart, from my voice as much as anything,
Is the deep joy I feel, the honest feeling that makes the tears run,
In knowing this insufferable pain will never join me
To its cries again, because I alone am merely separate
While all the others are truly alone.
In the terrible days ahead, being ill will feel better and better.
Alone in the frightening depths, I'll have a wonderful sense of depth.
And if I help things along with a touch of violence, if I break
The heart that I speak from down into smaller and smaller parts,
Well that can't be helped, in my logic the thing that matters
Is slowly putting an end to the logic
By which it matters, eager to see what's next
When the next thing just comes next.
And when at last the wolf arrives, no one will know the difference.
They'll be hearing a plea that matters, but in this case finally it will.
In my heart, and I have a heart, the soft cry grows louder.
In the terrible nights ahead, it will only be something loud.