Twisting into her,

the putrid sludge of self-deprecation,

tentacles of a slimy beast.

Malleable flesh open to disease, filth,

flung from the mouths of true monsters.

So eagerly bared to the world from birth,

naïve, as if asking to be tainted

by malicious stares and toothy sneers

that twist mouths of strangers

into gaping maws

ready to etch deep

into her grey matter, syrupy,

soup like and full of emotion,

hidden tears and secrets.

But it too can be shattered

with sledgehammers and axes.

With claws,

brute force.

Split open the skull

to feed the black tendrils, groping tentacles

swirling deep in the subconscious, tar

dripping from eyes and ears and nose

and painting her shirt

like an oil slick

for everyone to see.