Slithering. Winding like vein drunk poison. Your mark on me. Your breath. In the dark, with only sense to guide. Not sure if this feels good or like death. A mistake already made. In a history of mistakes. A white line highway in the headlights. The feeling of eyes and a rain of misery. Yet still, I walk on. Stumbling in the deep shadow. Relentless. Walking on into a certainty of something. The knowledge of a fall. Of a wide open rending. And still, I walk. Following the blind man. Following the hungry. The wild. The forgotten. Following the mad. Following my deepest self that knows; knows that nothing is sacred. That everything is deserved, one way or another. That pain is a price paid for living. That love is a salve I will never earn. And still I walk. Your breath on me in the dark. My heart empty and keening. My hands shackled. My head bowed. My arms aching. And still my feet keep on. Bare and bleeding. While the slithering inside grows certain and even more of me disappears.
A mistake already made.