My rusted joints s c R A P E themselves away, eroding brittle bone that use to be stone
All thats left in this skin, this S k I N is bits of debris that use to be me
All I can feel now is the skin, so painfully aware of how every sensation sinks into these bones
Scrape, skin
**** sin
Im strung up in this flesh with arteries and veins sewn into this thing that is me
This thing that doesnt feel like me but for some reason is
Does this still count as alive when all I feel is this?
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
My rusted joints s c R A P E themselves away, eroding brittle bone that use to be stone
All thats left in this skin, this S k I N is bits of debris that use to be me
All I can feel now is the skin, so painfully aware of how every sensation sinks into these bones
Scrape, skin
**** sin
Im strung up in this flesh with arteries and veins sewn into this thing that is me
This thing that doesnt feel like me but for some reason is
Does this still count as alive when all I feel is this?
Request permission to use this poem