marionette of grief

They birthed me in a house of screams, Where shadows stitched my fevered dreams— No lullaby, no gentle womb, Just rusted chains and cradle's tomb. A mother’s voice? A serpent's hiss. A father's touch? A clenched, cold fist. Each lull was laced with sharpened lies, Each smile a mask, each hug a vice. I suckled rage from bleeding walls, With maggots dancing in the halls. I slept in beds that whispered death, And learned to love the stench of meth. Oh blade, my bride—my faithful friend, Who kissed my wrists and did not bend. With every cut, I fed the void, With every slice, a sin destroyed. I carved cathedrals in my skin, To exorcise the rot within. A crimson hymn, a holy moan, That left me trembling and alone. My heart? A rotten thing encased In barbed-wire dreams and lovers' waste. They came with silk, then tore my seams— I gave them light; they gave me screams. One whispered love then drank me dry, Another laughed while I would die. They danced upon my breaking back, And left me crawling, cold and black. Now I—depraved, defiled, decayed— Am but the ghoul that love has made. A marionette of grief and gore, Hung in a room with no locked door. The mirror mocks with grinning teeth, It shows the grave that sleeps beneath. No soul remains—just ash and flies, And stitched-up skin that tells no lies. I hate this shell, this meat, this rot, This walking corpse the world forgot. And if you touch me, you will see— There’s something vile inside of me. So drag me down where worms still sing, Where angels dare not spread their wing. Let me decay in sweet disgrace, With shattered bones and eyeless face. No cross. No tomb. No final breath— Just me and madness… wed in death