i was born and on fire. my skin, open flesh words that bled onto anyone in a close vicinity. my face, a cloud of black dust. i knew that i had love in my heart to share with the world, but no one could see past the mold on my skin that would spread to them if they got too close. i was born into two things: a fruit that appeared ripe on the outside but leaked out a decayed, rotten mess, and the hands that opened said fruit with blood that held on. i watch the destruction i've made, that i didn't mean to make, but i believed that it was justified. i wait for someone to understand these words, not to pity me, but to find a part of themselves in me. i have found nobody. i fear that as of now, i am a walking, moldy model of decaying flesh and raw meat. i did not want to be this way. i did not want to be the black sheep. i did not want to be bad. i am a sculpture of wet clay that they could mold with their pure hands, and despite all that creativity in their alive and well minds, they have carved the word "rotten" in my flesh.

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I feel Hollow.
Barren.
Empty.

That hollowness erodes my body,
leaving a trail of decay.
Cracks crawl through my brittle bones,
shattering my skull,
fragmenting my thoughts.

A carmine-colored river floods into my caving lungs,
before dragging itself up my throat.
The metallic taste slowly overwhelms my mouth,
and seeps through my gapped teeth.
My glass smile falls and shatters.

Terror grips what was once my voice,
holding sound captive-
my call for help erased by despair.
Only strangled sobs exist.
I'm left choking on my own life force.

Each sob collects upon my face;
a veil of tears cover my broken visage.
Shrouding me from prying eyes that encompass judgemental gazes.

Without even seeing,
their stares spear my soul and blacken my heart.
The forgotten, grayed ash
smothers out all that remains.

My rotted husk: a void, a dismal skeleton.
A vast emptiness that nothing can fill.

Broken.
Decayed.
Hollow.

It's what I am.

Steps shimmer beneath

the bushes, a carved staircase --


Once used by tourists.

I see a golden autumn landscape.
All that remains is the black sun.
Its light extinguished, yet it illuminates the land with luscious fullness.
Withered leaves trickle down like golden rain, falling in deep devotion.
The gold-veiled goddess, her face black as shadow, proclaims the prayer of abomination —
that which remains beyond spirit,
eternal lust,
the driving force of all being.

She who walks the forbidden lands of knowing.

Who has ever touched her mystery?
Who has dared to see her fully?
Who has dared to praise her divinity?

looming over a flower field
booming over a quiet sea
falling into an easy solitude
calling out to an empty chasm

when I asked you what you wanted
I never guessed it'd be me
when I asked what you needed
I didn't expect it to be anything

you looked otherworldly in that lighting
something ancient in me shattered
I just had to go down fighting
and risk my heart being battered

sitting in a bed of plush grass
spitting into saltwater
plunging into a suffocating silence
dispunging over a bottomless pit

thoughts breaking into glistening raindrops
knots tying messes into my stomach
decay taking over all my crevices
betrayal to every one of my senses