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the stench is very distinct
unlike the copper blood
that reeks of rust or dead wood,
rotting flesh
is like the sound of a dentist,
drilling into the molars that have become
infested
with the indulgences of your tiny mind.
You can hear the sinful guilt
being torn limb from limb like
the shrill cries of bugs being burned alive.
I suppose you could call it sick,
to describe it in such a way
but you've never smelt
your own rotting flesh
beneath your fingernails,
rolling between your teeth,
swinging under your arms,
and supporting your limbs.
I wouldn't order it
but I'm not the one with the menu
I'm not the one paying the bill
and I certainly not the one in the cemetery without you.

The rotting flesh can be cut away
the limbs can be salvaged.
My heart will go on
and I won't ever be the same.
It starts with the guilt,
boiling into yellow sores
but before they can heal,
infection sets in.
Hatred so strong that no cream could solve it.
It's a hatred that cannot be spoken,
a hatred that cannot be broken.
The irritated sores worsen,
from yellow to red and black in day.
The sickening starts and the head reels back,
throwing up the oily memories.
They shine when the light hits them,
but their rainbows fade into the black
Don't be fooled cause they're only memories.
I'm fooled and reach in
and tumble
and fall.
It's not deep enough yet to drown.
Wake up in a sweat.
What's reality and what's not.
Wouldn't it be nice to just heave out,
breathing in the light?
Then the sores spread to an itch,
reminding you that dream was always real
the darkness squats in you still...
and the scratching turns to bruises
to cuts to wounds.
The scabs stare back up,
growling and sneering.
And that's when the rotting is apparent.

You look in the mirror and there are no corrosive marks.
There are no burns to justify the stink
but it remains.
In your mind, the smell is so strong
and when you take that marker to tell yourself,
this is who I am to me
you draw nothing.
You are the dead thing that walks among the living.
You are the rotting soul that spreads its virus,
it's life of hatred into others.
And that is what rotting flesh is,
Not Ordinary.