i feel it begin in my stomach,
the chipping of pieces and
crumbling of my walls.
it starts to fill up my tummy and pushes all of the fluids
up into my throat and out of my mouth
like pompeii.
it spreads to my lungs.
the sacks start to concave like
two greek columns
knocking together and coughing up huge piles of dust.
the crumbs fill my chest until i can no longer breathe
and all i smell is plaster,
like the smell of the pitiful attempt we made to patch up the hole that was punched in the wall.
finally it reaches my head.
upstairs it used to be so beautiful.
light would shine in through intricately designed stained glass,
like an ancient roman cathedral.
but eventually,
not all at once but so slowly over time,
the walls begin to weaken.
the windows lose their vibrancy
and in one swift motion-
crack!
it all comes crashing down.
my body is a wasteland filled with skeletons and rotting wood.
restoration is a distant dream,
but i know i'll never be repaired.
there's nothing here to salvage,
only chunks of concrete and shards of unanswered prayers.
YOU ARE READING
the beekeeper.
PoesíaVent Poetry Warning: Strong language Trigger warnings: Schizophrenia Self Harm Abuse (physical, verbal, and sexual) Gore
