Nov 2017
hell is an echo chamber.

among the retrospective haze, i remember
yowling - shrieking until it felt as though
razors had been taken to my vocal cords -
until i was too tired to be angry.

you'd think the Beast would snarl: she merely wields a mirror.
i stare into vacant eye-holes of a girl who once bore my shape;
flesh dried, decayed, rotten and grey.
(it had to happen at some point.)

there's...
cruelty... behind all of this,
beyond the level i favoured in my waking days
-- i wish i could sleep. the creator must live in fear:
it takes cowardice to be this callous.

hell is an echo chamber.
in an area of solitary confinement, i am my own cellmate
and she is gouging at the walls. i goad her on;
let her wear herself out so she can leave me in peace.
only one of us can breathe at a time.

in our own sins we trusted,
in their essence and their nature.
hell was never an inferno:

it is an echo chamber.
hesitant experimental poem. i was rightfully warned away from prose-y poetry when beginning to write, and it was only upon incorporating structure that my poems began to improve. i'm satisfied with this, though - there's multiple contexts it could apply to.
natalie stiles carmona
Written by
natalie stiles carmona  17/F/london
(17/F/london)   
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