ShroudI want to cut out my organsproffer them up, beating and reddirty pretty things lyingstill as death, wrapped in silk.Milk teeth white with secretsstark bone,hollow with regret - one breathexhaling fingernails; crescent moons,luminescent with guilt, dressedin sorrow desperate for utterance.The stuttered sounds of eyelids shutting in the nightlungs filled with candlelight and silver flashgash lips useless and stained with so much unsaid.Silent epitaphs treading wordsas heavy as a gravethe weight of a holethat malignant,spreads.
SelvesI make myself sick.I am a singularly revolting, crawling creep. Shuffling and weak in the skull, brain-heavy with the taint of festering disease.There is no name or end to the darkness in me, the horror of my thoughts, the fermented flesh of ineptitude that hangs a swollen speech bubble over my head, unspoken noose of chains and locks that dry-click shut in the night while others sleep.The hideous, selfish imposition of my desperate, disgusting, dysfunctional existence. Grotesquely, deliberately transparent attempts to be made of human, while inhabiting cerebral muck that feeds off of itself, a pulp-cage that fuels its own imaginary monsters, and (scalp)els bystanders in the process.My loathsome skin is a fucking blight, inflicting itself on the sight of others. A byline of contempt.With exhales I invade and infect airspace with my caustic, poisonous biledrip putrid words soiling silence - thick acid like arsenic. Testimony to indulgent naked need.Seeds of corpulent nightmare bu