Bed Rot

Thoughts of my younger self haunt me like fury and bloodlust.

Back then my pale neck ached from carrying sapphire crowns.

These days every sentence feels like a trap that will snap me,

And words slide in between my ribs until I bleed nouns.

My smile is drawn on every morning, not that it matters.

There are holes in my story but no one checks alibis twice.

There is a rope wrapped around my waist leading ambitions nowhere,

I wish this sadness was not a knife, wasting me slice by slice.

Those hot tears I once cried now give me frostbites each morning,

The bed rot consumes my heavy bones each night.

I used to think that sunrise could cleanse my chest of this sickness,

But it takes more than time to get to the gleaming light.

-Jackie