Rigor Mortis

They say I am washed out

Inside out without a bout of gout

My eyes are gouged out poked out of their sockets

And plugged inside out

In the inside of my snow-white skull

Rolling about in their sockets in the dark

My nails stab the inside of my sinewy flesh

Like shrapnel or hardened constipation

In my nether place

My boys are trapped in a pelvic prison

Fleshy blood red curtains draped over the walls

Blotting out the sun the breeze the agony

Of looking inside out and not liking what I see

Unaccustomed to the view of my exoskeletal frame

My brain matter sensitive to the breeze

My very essence slipping off

Like a melting mask

Washed away

Stripped from me

They say

Rigor Mortis

I am afraid of the dark