Confessional #4

In my gut;
in the core of my existence,
there breathes a child.

A child with tantrum,
a child with a greedy heart;
but there’s another voice,
overlaid,

The quiet clamor of decay.

Her heart breaks,
and mine is a mask
of insincerity,
debris coddles
and comforts
the hollow shell
that once was me.

Mother,
I am done decorating the walls.

//

Mother,
your life is mine,
spent in the catacomb of your womb.

Before I spill out
into endless degeneration,
let me linger longer
in the daze of this eternal sunlit sky.

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