Why do these infected hands keep plaguing my mind?
They're foul surges against my body
like tremors of purifying quakes; And I cannot breathe.
They lap onto my mind, a sea of mire and dissorientation.
Threats fed to me with honey and ribbon
Dripping like a cellar and the absence of hope.
Opening my eyes just dries them out,
but letting them close draws me back
Those times when I catch sight again
of the polluted reflection in the glass..
They are a shadowed echo of guilty qualm.

The ceiling was yellow. I think it used to be white.
Twisted. Filthy. I can't open my mouth.
Misplaced trust. Trust never to be seen again.

The lazy brawl of flies among this,
They're cicadas among the leaves, deafening,
in my head and out.
You're in my head and out.
Your touch burns holes in my flesh.
Goodnight, little girl.

My skin is crawling.
mirrorscantlie mirrorscantlie
18-21, F
Dec 3, 2012