Day Twenty.
This frame you left to me is so hollow it hurts.
Its wire is bending under the pressure and puncturing skin
like the indentation left when a needle is pressed against a balloon.
The burrow of contact in the fraction of a moment
before the collapse and the implosion of being
that once belonged to this barren body.
The flesh no longer covers bone,
the words cannot blot out the worst in me,
and the way your eyes on me sear the curled edges of my being
burns more than the hell fire of this purgatory.