My Sore..

 
My sore
I got a sore.
Swollen juices,
claimed a space of skin.
I Held it's roar; its infected mass..And let it not be seen

I kissed Dec
he vomited,
feelings into my mouth
hungered mess; i ate, and kept them curdled there throughout


Untill;

He left me
with my belly full.
He left me with
my angered wound.
He left me with the swelling,
and the hatred,
and the yelling,
and the joy of
never telling
when the fuck
i would stop dwelling,

on the bile piled high
upon, the love he seemed to spew.

I found a knife
To slit my sore
And moped it as it leaked
I drained its life, Its liquid gold till, deflated it deceased.

And i thought, whilst tracing the blade around my finger, the agnony of Dec was the infection he let linger...
The bulbous growth of rotted seed, he drilled in through every hole, the seman, saliva, the dreams he'd weave, now viley they mold...and they roll within my stomach like a parasite in my womb; expand into every crevice, exposed like puss filled blooms.


So whos responisble for the torture, the nuture of the beast? or the one who planted its existence, who made it thrive beneath?


I raised my hands
aplogised
for everything i felt.
and on command, the juices ran and left me by myself


I do not love Declan.