Perhaps you're apathetic to my ministrations
fatigued by my futile attempts at suturing
the suppurating wounds inflicted by others
who came before me much like those I suffer
both of our spirits bearing similar scars
Upon removing the bandages to reveal
they have not healed and rankle raw and red
I turn my head not in disgust at the pus
but so you won’t see the tears I shed
on account of my failure before binding them
once again in clean linen after applying a balm
of my best efforts that in spite of their sincerity
will never be enough thus my own injuries
I’ve clumsily dressed will continue to fester
and decay without the catholicon physic
of those three words you cannot say
Sluggish suppurating symbol of disgust,
Dragged wailing into a reproachful life
Child of wrath and sloth and lust
All she will ever know is
Strife
Curdled flesh clings to a brittle scaffold
Pebbled orbs recline in sunken hollows
Starving slavering mouth unfolds
Engulfs the world and then it
Swallows
Gawky appendages waver against a cruel ill wind
A map of veins slides beneath brittle wrists
Starfish fingers strain to hold at bay
An onslaught of constant demoralizing
Dismay
Ugliness lies etched in every curve and line
Defiling the beauty that might have been
Ashamed and fearful of her own reflection
She skulks in soothing shadow hoping to remain
Unseen