Are not windows to the world,
But
Silent films playing continually,
Sending their viewer into madness.
My ears,
Do not allow the flow of music,
But
Whisper, scream threats vulgar
Till their rage fills the emptiness with painful echoes.
My lips,
Do not taste the sweet and tender,
But
Sour, sending blood
Pouring from the gaping hole where a mouth should be.
The scents,
Are not those of roses or fruit,
But
Rotten and decaying,
Turning, twisting, wrenching my stomach to a knotted mess.
My skin,
Is not a blanket that explores the world,
But
A coffin filled with broken glass,
Whose jagged walls are closing in.
My body,
Is not a temple to God,
But
An inescapable hell
That the sinner I am made it.
Age 15