You lay.
Hands cold,
clenched and vibrating.
Every sound you utter is a croak,
something deep in your voice feels torn.
Your skin crawls,
critters roam your body.
As phantom voice whisper in your ear,
mocking, taunting.

The anxiety builds,
as your kin spew poisoned words.
It froths,
as discomfort settles in your skin.
It spills,
when your own thoughts attack you.

Degradation could never remain an external battle