Self Inflicted Disease

Its not a disease. Teared as in tear :'(

The knife passionately kisses my wrists,

Blood runs thick as my veins twist,

Vodka bottles roll hard and cold,

Telling nightmares tabooed not told,

The sweat runs fast down my back,

Skin leaking white from blood lack,

Sharp emotions pierce my eyes,

Stinging salty teared surprise,

Sickly air floats stale and old,

Depression flourishes over skin like mould

Each dirty feeling an itchy spot,

The mutant pox is what I’ve got,

Disease runs riot under my flesh,

Maggots nibbling on darkness fresh,

There’s no cure for what I’ve got,

I’m stone cold dead and ready to rot

Author's Note

How do you spell mould???
: )

Reviews

[Lyndsay Castro]

hehe, it's "mold". This is a good piece. I like the rhythem and the imagery. I hope all goes well in the contest for you!