There is a sickness in my gut.
“Why?”
I writhe and wrench at my punishment by another
My innards coil when that word flies from anyone’s lips
And if it does, I spit at it so that it may retreat back to where it belongs
Kept in the dark and moist filth that is the human mouth.
Let it stay there, in my world it belongs nowhere else.
Or I shall again become sick from the sickness that is sick.
Or I shall spew words of disgust and repulsion for it is sick.
Or I shall seep expressions that lack any sort of well-being for it is sick.
“Why?”
Because he made it so, a noble deed gone wicked.