the dirt
continues to grow and fester
beneath my fingernails.

but i don't stop groveling
down to my knees,
i don't stop to breathe;
to rest.

you, who bears god's love;
whose love i could not know.

you and your sin-stained palms
continue to enshrine
dilapidated ghost towns.

i undo the stitches on my wounds
and pick at the grisly scabs
under your scrutiny,

yet you chastise me
for the pool of blood
bespeckled on your feet.

the darkness
already dropped,
the night hides me once more.

the living sorrow,
simmered, bitter, and fresh;
everything remains.

i am
nothing more than
a vestige of existence;
an iota of deception.

even if
the rays of the sun
encapsulate me,
the streaks of moonlight
seem to weave itself
with
the empty shell that i am;

the murmurs
of the night-entangled hallways
call out to me,
claiming me as their own.

i am
nothing more
than an intruder
in this borrowed body,
mourning for the tragedies
forgotten and erased.