Oil slicks of sweat and grease are pushed up to the forehead in afterthought
Depressions under your eyes and cheeks are murky and dark and deep
made from too many days and nights
in a purgatory hell waiting for slumber
Mumble through the spit, you salivate at the idea of a thought
Your skin makes a scraping noise when you move and
broken-off hair lies in your hands,
blood is caked on your skin and nails and teeth
from a ferocity I cannot control or understand and
where did all these
scabs
scabs
scabs come from?
peeling and picking and flicking them off
undoes the perfectly sized wrappers on the wounds
and you are rawer than the day you were made

yelp and gulp, open your maw,
then scream as loud as you can
for as long as you can until
you are raw and rotten from the inside out