Flatliner

I’m not a screamer, I’m a crier.

My musical instrument is the silence

And my voice is the paint upon the pain

Who nests in my heart.

To tear chasms in my skin

Is to bleed the plague out a little,

And by starving the body,

I nourish the gangrene.

Watching the strength leeched away,

I see the bandages unravel

And I can only proudly show it,

This hideous hole I harbor.

This is a sickness unique to me,

And it’s only bound to thrive.

It’s spread its roots within.

I’d be dying if I weren’t already dead.