The Grey and Black
rippling across my chest
rippling through the open wound
oozing with salt of tears and blood
in little flame licks of pain,
that prop up from the background hum
that thrum, works itself through me
the little throbbing wretch you left me
The heart thumps while it can,
your touch leaving only dead flesh
flesh that once wrapped itself around you
grew bitter in your absence
now only serves its own rot.
It’s easier to stay here, in bed
without the pain rippling to its head
too far overboard to tear me to shreds
where you once lay beside me
hoof tracing fur, touching chest
now bare of coat accepting only
torn, bloody flesh.
Dead flesh.
You are the witch that killed me.
Queen of the Frauds,
that played perfect.
Perfect, changeling, changing,
playing pretend that you
were special.
That your touch wouldn’t
rot me to my core.
You’re not special.
And I hope whichever
whichever pony you’ve found,
I hope they see through you.
I hope you’re rotting too.