Before thought. Before images.
No halting it.
A slight earthquake — no,
a violent tremor from the depths —
a deep, heavy rattle.
Hands betray the body,
white-knuckled fists beneath trembling thighs,
carrion clenched,
nails digging bloody crescents
into the flesh.
Knees,
a steeple pressed together,
praying to not come apart.
Oh, the scream!
Not a sound, but pressure,
a wire pulled too tight,
bone white and blinding.
A rat, in the small of the spine,
gnawing at its fault line.
Terror with no face.
Two dead moons, open, yet unlit,
staring through time.
Dead, gutted, glassy,
and fixed upon the horror
that will not die.
This is fear, foul and intimate.
Limb by terrible limb unmade.
Torture that undresses me
again and again.
Stripped naked in a vomitous rage,
hijacked again in this possessed skin,
sick with a poisoned past
that will not digest.
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