there is no blood,
but the sight is unsightly.
flesh hanging with brittle bones
on a hook of the hook less variety.
baby, its tearing me apart,
the thrum beneath my skin and
the grooves shifting, stretching, changing.
ill swallow it down with eyes closed,
my grip on reality straining at the fingertips,
but to be fair, reality didnt put up much of a fight.
you say you dont understand, how this happened,
no one understands death.
Day 1: Write a poem to this prompt, either incorporating it into the text or using the idea: There is no blood, but the sight is unsightly.