My fingertips grow numb as warmth leaves my
body. My eyes acknowledge hateful stares
until a hovering vulture swoops, pries
them from the sockets. Each retina tears
under its merciless beak. Lies formed from
my tongue turn to insects, feasting, picking
away the fragile skin. My ears felt wrong
to hear laughter. Only the ticking
time of my cursed presence should be heard. So
I cut them off, letting blood flow and mess
up the earth’s floor. I am buried just low
enough to smell damp mud and rotting flesh.
The dead don’t feel, but I’m rotting alive.
For my sin, forgiveness can’t be revived.
Scribbled Thoughts 