Some I hate, some I love
the cherished ones, most atrocious
together they've carved me hollow
quandary a crutch, not a broken soul
destitute and starved for witness
lives within me, a veil of rot
Photo by Elliott Engelmann on Unsplash
Perhaps the blindsides.
Perhaps the torturers.
The guilty and the heartless,
unable to reach down into the blackness of themselves
to find anything
no remorse, no guilt,
no clasped hands, no palm pressed
against the wound they've desecrated.
Just bodies dragged
through streets of their own making,
with tears turning to ash,
and somehow
no one ever bleeds for it.
I sense decency dying in them still,
perhaps they wear it well.
Or is it only the rot in me
a spirit everyone mistakes for light
But inside my skull, reasons fester
like flowers rotting through graves
reasons that devour my sleep
What do I know?
Just a ghost wearing skin.
