The Aftertaste of Sin
He struggles to swallow the bitter discourse
That writhes about; a parasite in his head.
It sends toxic waste truth
Coursing through his body,
Swimming through his invisible cellulose
Towards the deep, cannibalistic rhythm
Of his heartbeat.
‘Disgusting,’ it hisses, no, sings; it is the
Truth, after all.
‘Disgusting and pathetic,’ and the words become louder
Louder, louder until the scrutiny swells as a wave
Hard and cold, to ebb and flow
Ebb and flow,
In the sick sack of his stomach.
‘Pig, cow…’ the parasite spits; spewing the name of any
Fat, stupid animal
Over his own.
He relents, he knows his cancer is right.
‘No wits at all. Ugly. Fat as a whale. Putrid.’
He nods in accord as he turns in front of
The mirror is a black hole
It devours him whole and rips him apart,
Fiber by fiber, until he can see nothing
But the undesirable image of himself,
Jeering at him with a primordial sadism.
He wanders, intoxicated with self-abhorrence
In the labyrinth of disillusioned darkness
And no one would ever dare tell him of the sun.
Of a sudden
He tears his flesh from its stitches
Infused with his haunting mirror image,
And shuffles meagerly to the bathroom.
He knows well how to appease his inner demons.
The sight and smell of moldy linoleum
Is enough to get him to wretch.
As he empties his starving stomach,
He cringes at the familiar burn
Of yellow-green acid in his throat.
Albeit he does not protest,
For he knows all too well
That this is only the
Aftertaste of his insolence.
Artist: A. Truxal
School: North Allegheny