Laying alone quiet in the darkness,
thinking of this taste almost “un-senseable” but there...
a familiar tingle in the back of my throat,
this taste was once overwhelming,
chocking,
so strong to bring life crashing beneath it...
squeezing out strength and soul.
A feeling it was...
sorrow its name...
despair its purpose...
to hide ones face in shame for such weakness,
to bury ones heart inside the turmoil.
A feeling once self-brought,
once rebelled wallowing in self-hate...
loathing my very reflection the pitiful sounds of my heaving disgrace...
An yet here I lay wishing life hadn't stolen all of that feeling so soon...
how I dream of devastation, of drowning in an ocean of my regrets...
yet there is nothing its numb, a faint aftertaste of what once was...
What could I give for my body to rythe in emotion
uncontrolled by logic and self-preservation...
is it really a thing of the past?
I see it, my hands, feel the gentle ooze between my fingers,
this crimson stain covers me in the stench of what I’ve become,
There is no longer. There is no time, there is no washing away
this filth dripping from my body...
so thick is the stain it blinds the mind to feeling,
to the outburst,
to relieve this weight,
to clean the “uncleanable”,
it's vanished only the itch in my throat remains
