Which perception do they shoulder?
“Pus sy”, or unknowing soldier?
Weakness, or internal sickness?
They’re indifferent to the difference.
Still, They’re still expecting stillness,
my distilled and filtered feelings,
for me to be as they are themselves, and
anticipating this unrelenting unrelating,
I hide myself away.
The urge for abortion is a plague, because I have this suprise unwanted pregnancy–
A malicious, mind-screwing sperm which has burrowed into the cerebral egg of my neurotransmitters by means of psychological rape–what really is this weight I carry?
This thing that grows inside of me?
This parasitic infancy?
The mucous walls of this mental placenta;
the membranes of this umbilical prison
is the shield that keeps me in;
Suppressed expression which contains and quarentines the contagion,
lest those exposed become
infected by it’s afterbirth.
The Parasite’s neonatally feeding,
while it’s host withers, slowly dying, because I hide all this away. They wouldn’t listen anyway. A Crybaby has been born in their eyes.
Without a heart of hearing
it’s hard of healing,
and ‘cus they’re blind to seeing,
they’ll wonder why it happened
and care all of a sudden
when I finally abort myself.