The Aftertaste of Sin

The Aftertaste of Sin

a. truxal

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.