Acidic secrets melt through placid guts
and leave a hole, a pit, a missing piece
that only truth can find when it breaks free,
but truth, for now, is gone- and stomachs burn.
As flesh and bone alike are charred to ash,
and nothing can restore the gaping hole,
and I am left to clutch at my remains;
I know it's all my fault and I deserve
this horrid fate- pathetic, flailing limbs;
and pain that burns and freezes me at once;
and oh, the secrets tearing through my heart,
consuming all; and I am empty now.
If pain was all I had once, now I know
that hollow, emptiness is worse a fate.
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No rhymes this time, because, well, I don't know, I got sick of rhymes, and they're so difficult. I wrote this just before going to sleep last night, for no reason whatsoever. I think this is the first sonnet I've written that has nothing whatsoever to do with how I felt at the moment of writing it.
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