The Sound of Sin
It’s endless.
The words pour out of bodyless lips; honey oozing onto my burning, sheathed wounds.
Am I what they tell me I am?
The question expands through my membranes, inflating my insides until I detonate with the black of their degradation.
The sugarcoated insults hang in the air.
The sweetness intoxicates my silence until the noise implodes, a deliberate provocation to the vacuum of my consciousness.
I don’t want to be what they tell me I am.
Though, the vast, eternal plea for empathy betrays the feigning, defiant arch of my brow.
The hair follicles echo my hallucination of faith.
I wish for anything but the death of my soul;
A lack of voice.
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