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This body is not mine,
Though I still see through it's eyes
An image in my mind,
But this likeness I do not find
Denial, rejection; typically a body's traits,
Somehow here in my soul, felt towards this flesh that frustrates
Upon a mirror I gaze,
I see a stranger's face
Am I a ghost that haunts here?
The previous Will erased?
Am I attached to a past,
That this body never had?
Disconnect with my body. Not written particularly well, but written with inspiration.
lenore Jul 7
i think i might have a mole.

my teeth are dug out of their rows.
my tongue is pulled out at the root.

my nails are shriveled up thorns,
my wrists wilted bouquets of bones.

my ribs metal jaws which enclosed
something that bit off its foot.

my skull’s overturned,
seeds spilling out of the neck.

what is a corpse but a flower bed?
salaì Apr 25
You poke your horrible head out
every once in a while.
I can taste you on my tongue, rolling over my teeth disgusting
and necrotic.
You’re rotten.
You crawl over me, a sick visceral
feeling that settles on my guts, heaving
me down to the floor.
Weak and heaving.
And so I
Hurt myself.
I’ll administer enough trust so
it’s sure enough to bruise.
hands over purpled skin
revelling on the sensation.
And so,
I’m marred.
It feels like a thousand
prickly needles piercing me, just as you pierce my mind
and every rational thought.
I’m not sure you exist. I’m not sure
you’re real;
I’m not sure I’m real,
either.
You impale the basis of my being
with such effortless strength, toppling
pillars without a second look or regard.
You make me want to ******* rip my eyelids clean off,
I want the tainted ichor, once and for all
to obscure my vision.
And never clear.
The gore corrupting my eyes
So deeply they
turn mildewy.
decay away with the rest of me.
I don’t want to see you.
I don’t want to believe you exist.
I will deny you.
Deny you.
Deny you.
And deny you, once more.
fully figurative.
Mouse Nov 2018
I don’t focus much on death itself anymore,
but what comes after.

Whatever comes will be, and that is that.
I cannot change it, and there’s no sense in agonizing over it.
I like to imagine my body after the event, when I am no
longer conscious, and the breath in my lungs have long
dissipated like last season’s floral.

Even though the chances are slim, I like to imagine being in the forest, surrounded by trees and flowers and perhaps a stream. I imagine a sort of time-lapse, my body collapsing inward, my skin peeling away, my hair wilting like autumn leaves.

Mushrooms will grow beneath my fingers, wildflowers will tangle themselves within my hair and ribcage, blooms and blossoms of all colors will emerge through my chest. My bones will grow moss and Mother Earth will swallow me whole. Tree roots will wrap around me, engulfing me, pulling me towards themselves. I will be wanted, I will belong.

Let me nurture you like you’ve done with me, let me help you grow and flourish into who you are to become, let me be your trellis, your shield, your hill. I will allow you to bloom such as you have me, and we will flourish together, life within death. It goes on, and it is peaceful.

Where there is death or change,
new growth awaits.
CrookedMantis Dec 2017
My eyes were on my hands
My freckles upgraded to bumps
My nails dug in my face
My elbows had replaced my knees

My kidneys swapped places
My hips found a home in my chest
My teeth bit at my skull
My whole spine flipped upside down

My brain dropped to my feet
My heart, soon enough, took its place
And I ran from my fate
Racing against what was unknown
Molly Jenkins Oct 2015
you touched your wrists
to mine
and a rash blossomed
across my skin
red and dry
ran across  
indigo hills
fields of turned-over soil
in the night-time
to cool my
strangled sweat
to find a sink
a light in the kitchen.

im sorry, i promise
i'll buy a slice
i just need to use your sink, please.

fluorescent-white
heat
i put the water on the hottest setting
and i scrub and
scrub, and scrub
fast, and hard
i rinse the raw
i leave.

when I wake up
for all my scrubbing
the rippling rash, the buds
are still there
under my skin.
a lone fungal stalk
of crimson
a fruiting body
rises from my wrist.

this does not belong
here
like a broken bone
bending in the wrong direction
under the skin
like the voice on
the other end of the line
this is not real
I wrote an iteration of this in November 2012; I've kept it largely the same with minor edits and revisions. Imagery rooted in a recurring dream I had all that Summer and again that Fall as well.
Rowan Ash Aug 2015
My lungs are filled with ash
      I exhale smoke and impurities
They embed themselves in my words
      until they too are as smoky and tainted
            as my insides.
bucky Jan 2015
tie me down
crowing about a crown of flowers
curl my palm into the hollow of your cheek
(oh my god drown me)
and here we have the soldier
hands covered in blood and knives (and something
else;but
we don't talk about that)
look how the blind man cries tonight
see these bones on the grass
frost building in the cavity between your ribs and
your skin
SCREAMING ****** IN THE HALLWAY
(THIS IS THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN HEAR YOURSELF
THINK
THIS IS THE ONLY WAY ANYONE KNOWS WHAT YOU ARE)
you, love, you, goldfinch
climbing windowsills
creep in the dead of night, cicatrix spiderwebs
here, here, here, in the small of your back
(can you feel me, here, crawling into your skin?can
you feel me sewing our palms together, goldfinch?)
"and the world will revel in wonder and delight--"
NARCISSISTIC LOVE POEM OF THE CENTURY

— The End —