spiders in my throat
eight legged madness scratching
at my gag reflex the pressure
is heavy on my chest of thorns.
vines dont grow through the pavement here,
no flowers bloom in this withering body.
trimming away at skin cutting across
the dotted line. it is a virus eating away
at a living thing full of protest and prize.
layers of cement coat my flesh layer
after layer the tar is clogging my lungs.
my lungs cannot filter a breath full of knives
digging deeper and deeper suffocation
is wrapped around my neck the rope, knotted
with the noise screeching like a siren no
one else can hear but me. as the pressure
tightens black smoke chokes me
with a blinding pain that leaves
no mark except shame.