Germs edge into blisters, filth soars
under the sores, feet sit on the surface,
not drenched in deep lungs like before,
when oxygen would drink me up.
I'm looked at like surgery, skin pinned back
open on a table and they peer in to see cogs churn.
I don't think people realise that when I say
'I won't be loved' I really mean I am a wheelbarrow
with a flat tyre and plaster stains all over, or a post box
with a wooden plank over my mouth so nothing can get inside
and fill me up like wine into glasses or happiness
into smiles.
This attack leaves smear marks
down window-skin, like being wrapped
in dead cells, there for the world to see
how ugly this disease can be.
Today I ate half a pizza uncooked
straight from the package. I was not hungry,
though something inside wants to bake things to black
like cakes or chocolate or all the love
that has never touched me there,
though I wish you would. You can join Unsolved Mysteries and post your own mysteries or
interesting stories for the world to read and respond to Click hereScroll all the way down to read replies.Show all stories by Author:  58334 ( Click here )
Halloween is Right around the corner.. .
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