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.