I am an empty shell.
No, that isn't true. I am not empty
My hollow body holds a corpse
I call her a corpse because only dead things can survive inside of me
Can you see her sillouhete through the paper-thin, worn out canvas that I call skin?
Can you see her mouth moving, as she screams for help?
Could you maybe hear her?
No.
Only I can do that
Her ragged voice is a deafening siren, in my head
Her cries become louder and louder as they bounce and bounce upwards
Rebounding off the walls of my almost-empty-shell
She has knives for nails
She marks the days of her imprisonment on my arms with thick, ******, paint
She etches dates, stories, apologies, dreams, and regrets onto permanently
She beats on the walls of my jail-cell-ribs, masquerading as a heart
Her endless tears flow through my rusted veins, pretending to be blood
I wish I was an empty shell.
But my body holds a corpse