What's left?

I'm a shell of a man.
Trapped in a cell,
of a hell.

Crafted in spite.
To apease my life,
my consumtion of,
drugs and endless,
floods.

Pain and sex,
to erect false security.
feigning deaths,
like normal consequenses.
My walls and defenses shattered,

battered by those I love.

can i be sorry?
Can I cover my scars,
and act like they aren't there?