I see the faces of the dead
rolling their eyes as
they accompany me in my hallucinations
My humanity dwindles into the small
of the pen
scratching its way along the paper
under their scrutinizing gaze.
urge me to write and yet
mock my efforts.
A sprawling confession
are all of my writings,
as I peel them from my skin
to feed to the dead
and ever intensify their hunger.
But having abandoned love
I draw closer to these specters,
to the hollow pestilence they carry,
and I find comfort in their soothing malice
as my self
becomes lost in the pages and
to join their company.