The slow desecration of the soul;
The chill of the winter in our bones;
The wreckage that is our organs;
The decomposition that is our skin.

The taste of toxicity on my mouth,
Feeling the conflagration caressing my throat.
Body wrenching in protest,
The acid makes its attempt to convulse through.

The sultriness flares against my mass of decay,
Haven't you realised I'm the one to make me pay?
Depths are meanwhile urging, needing to be made,
Surrendering to the power which is self contained.

The exterior of this is to be scraped away;
It is to ooze with glistening sores.
The bones taking their part to lacerate their way in,
Abhorrence and disease dripping through my pores.

The loathsome nature of oneself;
Detestation of mere respiration.