Sharp is the offensive noise that abandons my ribcage
Loudness bursting from me, ears ringing with rushed half-coherency.
A primal urge to please threatening voids.
Shame leaks from every pore,
Brow slick with predictions of nauseating whispers,
Of slick wet gazes of penetrating judgement.
Silence, my mistress has returned.
Unstitching the seams again, deconstructing this strange flesh that carries me.
the wind that whips at my soul tastes different this time.
A stillness, a nuclear embrace of my otherness,
I scrape and carve and whittle and score, I dig, I claw, I dry and smooth. I polish and soil and shine.
And then I am still.
A pillar of jagged molars and leathered skin happy to bear the lashes owed.
Violent fingers curl and cramp,
exhausted shoulders stiffening in wake of my quiet pilgrimage through thick red blindness
My soft organs compress into fossils of reflection
I find no mirrors of reason clear enough to justify my ligature to this stake.
But if there must be a fire, why not my sinful flesh for sacrifice?
Purification, damnation, no liver nor lung nor pound of flesh will ever be my currency,
Burn me, strawberry-coloured guts and all.
I slip into the spaces between meaning and I find what I’ve been looking for.
Not of my flesh nor yours, just of.
Just of.
The curtain is closed, shadows on walls need not be deciphered,
If I must lean away from weapons of perception, I shall dance a strange, mangled departure,
But it will be my own,
I will be my own.
Nov 5, 2025
Nov 5, 2025 at 9:41 AM UTC
Sharp is the offensive noise that abandons my ribcage
Loudness bursting from me, ears ringing with rushed half-coherency.
A primal urge to please threatening voids.
Shame leaks from every pore,
Brow slick with predictions of nauseating whispers,
Of slick wet gazes of penetrating judgement.
Silence, my mistress has returned.
Unstitching the seams again, deconstructing this strange flesh that carries me.
the wind that whips at my soul tastes different this time.
A stillness, a nuclear embrace of my otherness,
I scrape and carve and whittle and score, I dig, I claw, I dry and smooth. I polish and soil and shine.
And then I am still.
A pillar of jagged molars and leathered skin happy to bear the lashes owed.
Violent fingers curl and cramp,
exhausted shoulders stiffening in wake of my quiet pilgrimage through thick red blindness
My soft organs compress into fossils of reflection
I find no mirrors of reason clear enough to justify my ligature to this stake.
But if there must be a fire, why not my sinful flesh for sacrifice?
Purification, damnation, no liver nor lung nor pound of flesh will ever be my currency,
Burn me, strawberry-coloured guts and all.
I slip into the spaces between meaning and I find what I’ve been looking for.
Not of my flesh nor yours, just of.
Just of.
The curtain is closed, shadows on walls need not be deciphered,
If I must lean away from weapons of perception, I shall dance a strange, mangled departure,
But it will be my own,
I will be my own.
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