glyphs

Outside of myself, I'm a rotting 
pile of teeth, knocking on 
doors, gumming the sill 
of opportunity. In every
attempt to breach the 
skin I've left striations 
but nothing more. My 
marked body is but a 
map to the intravenous 
catacombs underneath, 
where my spongy organs 
have been touched by 
light as often as my
knees have buckled
under the weight of my
skeletal frame. I've 
denied myself the 
luxury of not 
apologizing. I've
peeled scales from
my skin. My freckled 
body is a distortion and 
yet, I myself am its pigment.