Analogy Of My Unmaking
It’s cold.
It’s cold in my lodes.
It’s cold in my cells.
It’s cold in my lobe.
My ears, blessed with plagued tint; your windmill of everlasting exasperation, pacifying the turmoil beneath my dermis.
Again, again, and again.
The recurring depiction inked onto the dip of my lips, the pink waning into the virtue of my ward.
The tears gash as I attempt to pelt away from the ceaseless predation I reluctantly melt into.
The eyes scan me head to toe; I remain a simple dispute to the contrary of my dearth.
The eyes strip me head to toe; I remain a simple fiction to the turpitude of their obscenity.
The eyes scourge me head to toe; I remain a simple anathema to the excretion of my blasphemy.
The exploited nudity travels beneath my tangible, under my demeaned stance of a humiliated vermin.
Nothing but a figurine carved into flesh.
Nothing but a mannequin scribed into skin.
Their degradation caresses the mortification of my fragility.
And the epithelium of my delicacy probes at me;
I’m not making it to 19.
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