A stab in my guts
deprives me of a eons-lasting appetite.
My soft skin crumbles like gravel,
silently slipping into your boots,
like fungal spores from death caps.
An empty struggle to preserve a life unworthy of salvation.
Peering into the irises of those who stand before me,
their eyes weak and half-open,
their mouth wavering yet vacant,
mercilessly digging with their talons and fangs
into my dormant, hollow shell,
ripping me asunder and scorching my hide.
I’ve felt the blood inside me freeze,
as they carved their way through my gashed flesh,
my strangling screams echoing through the wintry abyss.
Feasting on my corpse like jackals and vultures,
feral beasts devoid of mercy,
stripping me of the purity I once proudly worn.
Yet, I’ve stayed true to you,
to your justice, your oaths,
to your war, your turmoil.
I’ve fought through these forsaken wastelands
in search of joy and hope,
delight and love, a modest piece of heaven to make my abode,
a sanctuary, a shelter from the wrathful storm.
The creaking of splintered bones is all I hear.
The heart-rending cries of woe and misery.
I’m scared of what lurks inside me,
a darkness so visceral and brutally abject
it pulses within me. A raw and steady rhythm,
a buzzing of temper and ire.
I want to go back to that house,
rise anew in spite of failures,
triumph and lay them all to rest.
My heart is all I have left of me,
the one thing I wish they’d taken away—
my own little sanctuary.
And it’s you, the fragment of heaven
I’d been searching for
since the day of my birth,
till the night of my demise.
I hope there’ll be nothing left of me in the end.
So please, release the wasps.
Let them strip away all that I am.