mental mires crisscrossed with wires
emotional hellscape tickles my nape
endless cold shivers, hands covered in slivers
from grasping at branches outstreatched

I wonder how does it feel, not being torn asunder?
does your mind play tricks, and gift you Icks?
because I cannot tell whether I’m living in hell
or if it’s just the anguish speaking in tongues

give my vena cava a slice, each artery a dice
and watch as viscous ichor blesses the floor
but these types of baptisms only create more victims
there’s only so many lives worth dying for

© Graveyard Grace