Body

What sits inside of a soul, taking shape of a body.

Body

There are too many hands that slide around and over. Through and inside of a body that’s become numb to all that is negative. Yet it struggles to breathe and there are shards of ice littering it’s limbs. This body is vile and it oozes miasma through crevices and nooks, bile dripping down it’s jaw and burning it’s pale grey, veined flesh. There are spiderwebs that have drawn themselves over the cracks on it’s torso and the spiders have begun to devour it’s innards, slowly but surely wanting to literally hollow it out. 

This body sits on a throne of twisted thorns that are black thick ropes, winding around this body’s neck, digging in and binding it to it’s place on this throne. This throne is at the very end of a dark hall with walls of cages and mirrors that glimmer with incessant rage. So violent is this rage when it pours into this body. Snapping it’s limbs in cutting manners and having them bring down life. So violent is this thing that sits in this empty room.

The body’s fingers are broken. It’s obvious. Scars crisscross these digits in ways that are unnatural. These digits were soft once, as the slipped along another body, another slender frame, but now they are not, as they leak miasma into this room. They bend and they snapped and they pried life from so many, it seems.

Inside this body, hatred simmers below the surface, threatening to erupt in fits of either tears or murderous repressed anger. This monster that sits quietly, chained and sealed with bars away from the world beyond the room. It’s not allowed to see sunlight or breathe clean air. It’s twisted and it’s dark to the point where it really has never been a soul to start with. This monster tears at the insides of this frail body. It wants out so many times but it’s restricted and as it’s restricted, it builds itself up, filling itself with hatred and fear and feelings of self-destruction. It’s cold and it’s heated all at once, apathetic and sensitive. 

This body is just a body. It’s forgotten and bare. It rots away in filth.

Reviews

[Sydney]

Honestly you are one of the best writers I've seen in a long time. The imagery is absolutely chilling. You should consider writing a short story. Keep it coming!!!

[Acromantula]

Thank you very much for all the great reviews. It's appreciated. I'll be posting whenever the urge rises and will definitely think about a short story or two :)

[Sydney]

That's the best way to go. I try to never force words out, I follow urges as well. Looking forward to reading more! I don't say that too often, and I mean it!

[Acromantula]

Alrighty, then I shall continue with my writings, thank you!