Do you know what
self-hatred
feels like?
It’s like Davy Jones’ tentacles
slithering through every crack,
every crevice -
The nostrils, the ears,
the parted lips and unhinged jaw.
It slithers in,
tendrils of thick smoke
curling around the lungs.
A python slowly strangling
a beating heart.
Poison
rushing through the veins
and settling into the folds
of an overthinking brain.
It’s hot lava under the skin
and black ash filling the chest
till all that’s left
is a hollow mould -
a bit of Pompeii
in all of us.
Self-hatred
is a sudden gust of wind
on a still midnight
that brushes past dewy gardens
and casts
the skeletons of leaves
in its wake.
