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 and send 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