deep inside it festers,
climbing up my ribs, moving across muscle,
wrapping around my vessels.
i’m not an elderly man,
but i am a withering soul
known for flipping itself inside-out,
all flesh and blood tumbling onto the floor.
there, outside, it festers,
a ball of greed and hatred.
i am looking at it with tired eyes
as it glares back. it always glares back.

i’ve shrunk back into my shell
camouflaged against the image
of tears streaking down cheeks,
early childhood not only a fond memory
but also a burden to carry.

i’ve descended into this hell
unknowingly, naive and blind.
my feet are bound to the icy floor,
my hands attracted to the flames.
there is no gray area when it comes to pain.

but i know too well the taste of nothing,
numbness that triumphs over a rosy garden of thorns.
my wounds are closed and the scars have faded
but the ghosts hover there, waiting and waiting,
searching for an opening to slip into.

deep inside it festers,
outside it sulks.
i am its host, its pitiful prisoner.
it knows me from my head to my
toes.