This Is What Was Left

I wrote this poem at a time when everything in my life felt too jagged to hold. I apparently go through life with a certain amount of pep and whimsy (in amongst all the profanity, of course). But somehow, that had all evaporated. This is what was left.

No Wrong Answers

Defeat

My aching bones creak
beneath the weight
of the mountains
growing, out of my spine.
Obsidian labours to pierce my flesh.
Stretching my skin. 
Pulling it taut 
as I groan—straining
to save my seams 
from being ripped apart.
Jagged peaks emerge down my back.
My leaden legs
become sluggish—quivering
under the burden 
you saddled me with.

You latched a collar
around my throat.
I gasp for relief—suffocating. 
But you steal the breath
out of my mouth.
You summon me with a bell—
a performing mule in your circus.
It echoes through my mind.
Haunting my restless sleep.
My skull splits open.
Blood, dripping down my face.

Shackles bruise my ankles
as you sink your claws
into my rotting flesh.
Pulling me deeper 
into madness. 
The acrid stench
of my torture
floods my senses.
You unhinge your jaw
to swallow my soul.
Gulping, greedily—
until my lifeless body lies discarded.
Consumed. 
Crumpled at your feet.

My trembling fingers
reach to reclaim 
the pieces of me you scattered 
like seeds in your garden.
You hover, over my shoulder.
Your breath warms my neck.
Sears my skin, branding me—
until I’ve paid your price
for my freedom.
An insurmountable debt.
You carved your faustian deal
into my ribs. 
Your mark, smeared on my forehead
with my own blood.

You snicker
when I prostrate myself
begging—for a futile reprieve
before your hunger
for my soul rises again.

The taste of my defeat
only draws you closer.
My eyes drip
with bitter resignation 
as I watch you unhinge your jaw—
again.

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