poem, "defiled".
Her skin began to crack, rotting and drying up rapidly.
I watched as it flowed over her skin like a virus.
Her features looked all weird, her eyes out of place and smile crooked.
Ink flowed grotesquely out of her eye sockets.
I didn’t understand it at all
Promptly, I look the other way.
Why do you look like that?
Another day passes, and the ink spreads to another.
It runs down their neck, and I watch as another body begins to rot.
The smell of a corpse made my chest itchy.
My forehead starts to drip.
I wipe it with the back of my hand
It doesn’t run clear.
My fingers are stained with it, and begin to mould.
I brandish my knife, and cut them off.
They fall to the floor and patter like raindrops.
The ink puddles on the floor.
It won’t stop spreading.
Why? Where is it coming from?
I never had to realise before.
But today, it’s me.
I struggle, cutting off another limb.
I look at my blackened appendages on the floor with pity.
I don’t need it, so it’s okay if it goes.
My chest still feels itchy.
Has the disease spread even there?
I wipe the knife clean again,
My reflection shows in the blade
Have I always looked like this?
I can’t recognise it.
It slices cleanly as usual.
My skin parts, and I scramble to feel inside.
I break off my ribs
It cracks like fireworks.
I cover my mouth to choke back my vomit.
Urgently, I reach my hand into my chest
It violently breaches my fragmented ribcage
And tugs at my vessels and nerves, searching.
It’s tangled in the wires, but I found it.
It’s infected.
My fingers wrap around the rotten chunk of flesh
And rips it out, the splatter landing on my chin.
It pumps weakly, the black ink dripping down my forearm
Full with my selfishness and desire
Yes, the one who started it
Was definitely me.
