poetry for the poetic: 5

CXXXVI

can't you see how tangled i am?
how loose fit this skin
becomes when i've grown skeletal
the way my body hurts itself
to fit in the best it can
it is my horror, my nightmares
come to life, it begins and ends
with your mouth, the thing that
drinks all of the savory in me
and there has been wastelands
for as long as i can remember
i hear the wind howl, and the ground
shout back. i see my knotted image
in a reflection of a splintered mirror
i see myself: distorted, vicious pieces
that don't make sense.