This Forgetful Touch
I can feel my lungs ripping away,
replaced with a sick dread
making its way slowly,
thickly down my throat.
If I could breathe at all
I'd surely choke
but all I can manage is some small gagging,
though no sound can be heard as evidence.
My skin
seems to be
rebelling against the rest of me,
detaching slowly away from my trembling muscles,
leaving only small traces of its presence
in the way of a foul smelling slime.
My eyes,
once so vibrant and able,
have now dulled to a rather sickly gray
and I can't see much,
my eyelids now sealed shut,
swollen and dripping with a cloudy, sticky liquid.
I'm losing my hearing now,
everything a bit duller,
everyone muffled and seeming so far away,
but I'm sure I'd rather not hear them anyway.
Seems they like to point out what's been going wrong.
Tell me, as if I didn't know
of the nasty smelling grime glistening between my skin and muscles.
Of the dark, sinewy liquid dripping from the corners of my mouth.
And they mock my sightlessness,
not knowing that I hear enough to see them clearly.
I wonder if they'd stop... If they knew...
I wonder if they'd care to...