by joey friloux
inside of me
i feel a sickness growing and building like ichoric rust.
it consumes what it touches; feeding, digesting.
the remains of that which my life depends on no more than shit sheathed in skin.
it's fog fills my lungs,
layer upon layer it's like a fluid free floating,
each breath seasoned with the stretching and ripping of internal scabs.
held together by tar, resin, and infection.
a generous coat of suffering.
it's grip squeezes my heart,
each beat a little too fast or a little too slow.
i can feel it forcing my blood through clotted veins and arteries,
but, ever the optimist, i figure the heart failure will get me
before the cancer does.
it rapes my mind,
restraint beaten and battered bloody.
memories held down and tied-up, a duct-tape quadriplegic.
judgment’s legs are forced apart and so brutally fucked it figures
it might as well grow accustomed to the invasion; enjoy it.
the sickness becomes me.
my soul disintegrated.
my will splintered.
my body decayed.
i feel sick.
sick fills me.