My body is infested with a plague of bedsores.
Pus oozes from every imaginable crevice.
You don't need to look too close to see
The map of my life carved into my flesh.
In some places even the bones have been slashed.
But I made my bed and now I'm dying in it.
I'm immune to all the medication now,
The virus has swallowed the cure.
And the toxins run free; they are now part of me.
Slowly first, now unstoppable, this disease is killing me.
And still, my mouth continues on its crescent path.
I'm isolated from the world, institutionalized;
My clone sleeps in my bed now.
They don't even smell the difference.
Only my sickness knows how tightly it's gripping me.
My organs are dissolving into my poisoned blood.
Oh! What I wouldn't trade for some relief from this
Soul-engulfing pain roped around me like a python.
But I have nothing left to give, unless,
Another weary traveler will exchange some water
For a souvenir of blood and tears...
