w o r d s ¿

c r e a t u r e

Acidic tears streak down my face, burning each inch of tanned skin they roll over, yet I can't and won't stop them from falling. They drip down onto my thighs and eat up my flesh until I'm nothing left but a skeleton
drowning in sorrowful poems I call rain.

My throat is lodged by a thousand golf balls, hindering my ability to speak or even swallow my sinful pride. I try to spit them out but they seem rather stuck so
silent and proud I shall remain.

The hands I call my own are shaking so furiously that I wouldn't trust them with a game of Operation, let alone someone's fragile heart. I can't tell which is to blame; the bone numbing cold that's crept its way into my body or the fear that's wormed its way into my mind. I am deathly afraid of these thoughts
sending venomous daggers through my already injured brain.

I am nothing but a corpse with barely working organs keeping me aware of my existence. Like the heart that's buried deep within my chest, its rhythmic beating so faint and tired that you would have trouble hearing it with a stethoscope. Or the lungs that breathe in just enough oxygen to ensure
my ability to feel pain.

With every second that passes, I feel more creature than human. It isn't food I digest, but words written and spoken by other humans. It isn't water I drink but poison in the form of liquid and broken promises. Is it blood or tar
running through these veins?