Peach peels and sticky fingers
Blanket pulled from a cooking body
Its worthless
Rotting full of maggots of poison
Im growing flowers
Bright greys
Unseen by any
Eyes protrude from my ankles
They see the rainbow
They watch the blood drip
How it sinks into the floor
Sipping

All I seem to remember
Are the hollow eyes
Peeking from behind damp walls
Walls dripping with misery and the cold winters day
In a land where no flowers break through the heavy clay
Even though they try their best
The beast always catches them at the stem
Tears the blossoms out in calm rage
The feeling sold by its empty eyes
Like a useless spy
Wandering the streets sick with smoke
And liquor

Under starfull skies
Praying to God for a comet
To yell my wish at:
“Oh,to be more than just a clump of cells and flesh and bones
Patching together my soul
Creating something mine
The only thing I can call so“
Because I know each breach carved with the steady occupation
I could lead your hands into the gaps dug by
My litospheric plates moving
                                                   shifting
                                                                colliding
Far too soon

Now I have forests and mountain ranges
Peeking out of my veins
Spreading the dark ecosystem of my mind
I can feel the frost and the gloom biting trough my skin
The fog covering my every inch

Fangs dangerously close to bones
The only part clean of the parasites
Unlike my tunnel-disrupted skin
The penetrated veins sticking out of it

Slowly decaying away
While my heart fills my leaking body with new blood
Sisyphean effort
The life that goes to waste
But stains the flesh a vibrant red
My half-alive corpse
The only thing radiant on this grey lifeless street

The monster slowly kneels down to my side
Pierces its talon through my bone
Sells me to death
Leaves my core to rot
Defeating its defences like an unknown weapon
Injecting terror into the cold white stuff tangled around my heart
                                                                                     stuck around my veins

It sets me onto fire
Letting its own creation burn
For the sake of its pleasures
As the luscious woods burn to just skeletons and dust
The hollow eyes filling with the shadows of the light
As it snarls
A twisted caricature of a smile

People surround me
They have a different energy than me
They drain me
They make me mentally exhausted
Too exhausted
To the point where I want to lock myself up
To the point where I don't want to wake up

I'd rather rot in my bed
Just to not be called "Special Ed"
Just to not feel pain
Again
So I don't get hurt again
So I don't get shamed again
So I don't get drained again
So I don't have to be anymore insecure
So I can feel secure
While rotting away in my bed
While the depressive thoughts evacuate my head

The Raven flies,
But just to die,
For the children that it bears,
Bit of the hand that fed them
In a land bereft claimed fair.
A world where god bids all to live
When they say “If we dare”.
A place where all that was is not,
Yet The Raven does not care.

The Raven, dead,
Its children fed,
Its life, long forgotten.
Covered in red,
They laid their heads,
Leftovers, ever rotten.
With its soul fled,
The life it lead,
Its memory now shotten,
The land it left ignored its death,
And upon it grew soft cotton.

days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.

Dirt
         You've turned into dirt.

Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
          How does it feel to be this vulnerable?

To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?

To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.

These eyes fall on you now,
   they feel guilt,
      they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
          they feel like a murderer.

They run to drench you with water.

                           The poor white tulips,
                                              and the poor pink roses
                     will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?

politics,,,,, start out
something alive,,,,, ****,,,,, processe
sell the rotting flesh