Caskets

Some days when I look at myself I just see a casket.

When I was empty I was pure but then filled I became putrid

filthy

untouchable

I am a casket.

All I do is hold onto dead things,

things I should be able to let go of,

things that seep into my skin

my bones

my blood

and poison

I am a casket,

cluttered with loose bones throwing off sorrow

grief

festering decay

Like radiation into a world that did nothing to deserve my darkness.

Like I did nothing to deserve his hands

his lips

his body

his fault

when I didn’t want to take it

when it wasn’t mine

when I didn’t do it.

He never asked a question I had an answer for.

He never answered a question I ever asked.

He never asked.

Now when I reach out to touch someone else

the poison leeches out from my skin into theirs.

It makes them sick at the thought of me,

it makes them see me the way I do,

dirty

foul

subhuman creature,

I am a negative example.

I am a cautionary tale.

I am a corpse that hasn’t started rotting yet.

This poem is about: 
Me

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