there is something strange about these hasty words

strings of soggy cotton forming hazy shapes upon bloodied lips

plump pillows turned scarlet by nipping, ivory blades

drawn with beads of crimson like intricate patterns upon seamless flesh

these words are unfamiliar, and come from a mind that has been drowned in onyx waters

these words come from a weary heart tearing itself open with every searing pound

vessels tangling into sticky tar as chests crack apart

bones rot to old, weathered stone and seeping marrow

skin turns to gritty filth as rotten dirt pours from that shredded place

in the place of blood

there is endless black crawling sluggish and corrupting through ruined veins

and scarred hands tear at their structure with fervent energy

determined to rip me apart seam by seam, muscle by muscle, bone by bone

until i am gone, gone, gone

and gone are the soggy cotton words that make me dazed and cold with fear

for i lie awake at night wishing to escape this confinement of a body

the prison of a drowned mind submerged beyond saving

as dreaded ideas become syrup on the edges of a collapsed skull

and dance around and around and around

until my brain is cracked wide open

and my eyes are spilling out decay

i am nothing more than a slave to my own hefty thought

and i claw at myself, determined to relieve myself from constriction

that presses upon stinging lungs and scorches at my dying insides until they are charred and sickened

hating this thing that i have become

yet unable to escape the turning of a machine

the turning of an endless machine, spinning me through endless washes, only for me to come out just as rotten and filthy as before

and slowly, that last remaining flush will flee

from ghostly skin and scratched fingers

leaving nothing more than faded flesh

and eyes that left long, long ago

the turning, the constriction, the decay

i am trapped and broken

and now i am washed out

washed out

washed out