There isn't a word for this slimy cold;
Weighted and dense.
******* heat.
Like smoking a menthol,
Chilling lungs as they're caked in black soot.
Heavy.

He asked me why I kept *******
(the soot).
He asked me why I kept working myself to death.
He asked me why I wouldn't use my words,
Only my body to shut his mouth.

And how could I tell him,
There isn't anything to say.
My words have been replaced with soot.
My voicebox is just an ashtray.

It's killed everything.
It's eaten everything.
The monster is back.
And more insidious than ever.

A chill goes down my spine as wind dances
Into the space between my ears and into my hollow chest,
Filling in the clean spaces between the ashen viscera.

I'm afraid I'm dead.
I'm so cold and hollow.
My eyes scream 'vacancy'
Because I can't contort my mouth
Into anything intelligible
Nor force audible syllables through my throat.

I'm sorry.