devour

the cereal doesn’t taste the same anymore,

my mouth is dry like a season without rain,

my stomach refuses to digest me,

this home has never really learned my name.

i braid my veins, make them look more presentable,

i gulp down water like it might wash something clean,

i take up too much space,

i make a lot of mess,

i weld my skin into a corpse, then complain about the smell.

my hands bleed a lot now,

my legs too weak to stay,

i live in guilt, a house made of glass,

and grief is familiar now,

it visits often enough to know where everything is kept.

my soul wants to escape but my skin doesn’t stretch,

i’m ripping at the seams,

like a child who always screams.