March 25, 2011
By Morgan Cannon BRONZE, Oshkosh, Wisconsin
Morgan Cannon BRONZE, Oshkosh, Wisconsin
2 articles 0 photos 3 comments

Bruised and dismembered rots
the corpse of who I once was.
It’s hollow eyes glaze over,
letting melancholy
stitch itself over the surface.
It’s nails caked with blood,
just a fossil of a struggle.
It’s white and bruised lips
sealed as tight as it’s heart,
but that too has faded and shriveled.

The corpse’s fingertips frozen in the
shape of a grasp, reaching out for a savior.
A living picture of a nightmare
burned in it’s darkened mind.
It’s ribs press against the pale skin,
a sign of victory in it’s once blue eyes.

The corpse is mangled,
so easily thrown around.
Seemingly light as a feather,
yet anchored down by desperation.
Cuts trailed along it’s body reveal
places the trapped youth tried
to rip free from.

Trying to breath.
Trying to crawl it’s way out.
Trying to let relief pour in.
Trying to shatter those suffocating chains.
Trying to scream for attention.
and failing.

So the corpse fell a victim
to it’s own liquid soul.
It pooled at it’s heart
and evaporated with the burning regret.
It stays waiting to be breathed in to,
while the starving parasites devour it
and the dirt coats it’s wrinkled lungs.
It waits.
It waits with a haunting smile,
it’s teeth blacken with deception.
It waits hungry to consume my
innocent soul once more.

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