I am naught

I am more than breath and bone…

I am invisible, the interstitial; in the onslaught of existence, I am the space that bears dismissal; I am the ink in the blink, the prose never read, the praise never given, and the truth never bled

I am muted, the bitten tongue, the trapped gasp of life as the ligature is swung; I am the infected needle, the sutured lips, the warm, choking iron that madness slowly drips

I am disdained, the hand slapped away; the curled, disgusted mouths and the venom that they spray; I am the derogate from happiness, the suspected threat of violence, the surreptitious glance, and revulsive awkward silence

I am emptiness, the withdrawal; the benumbed, haunted stare that rakes the stain-ridden wall; I am the abandoned room, the hateful door close, the shattered vase embracing the deadheaded rose

I am mistakes, I am shame, a waste of sinew and marrow, of heartbeat and pain; I am questions undone, and answers unjust; I am my iniquities and failures and penances thus

I am succumbed, the means to my end, the apologetic carvings that the fingernails rend; I am the stripes lain bare, and the graven mark, the chevrons of an inner war, and the scars within the dark

art: (untitled) by Eric Lacombe

Originally posted April 02, 2020 on Brave & Reckless and Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen

Published by a.d.matthias

no w here

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