the ripper

there is an illness in me,

of a heinous sort of breed.

knocking through my bones,

crawling through my veins,

as it searches for a way to sustain all its greed.

often, i ache in its wake.

long i cry,

and yearn for a time i was not so full of grime.

my nails itch at my seams

in an empty attempt to empty contempt

and to rid my mind of its desolate screams.

yet i feel it still;

my illness in me.

my skin shows clean

fingers long and lean,

yet within it remains,

all but to be seen.