Mhm

Their bodies were like flags, that caught the wind under folds of fluttering fabric. They turned, they flipped, they tumbled, and rippled, flailing like breathless fish, cold, and terrified, as their death's all drew closer with every inch. Sometimes they would scream. Sometimes, they would be dead before they hit the pavement. And sometimes, they were simply to terrified to utter a sound from their bodies, whose flesh would soon paint the ground in pinks and reds.
If I'd been less consumed with logic, perhaps I would have seen this coming. But I was deafened by the sounds of human logic, and foolish with certainty who's assumptions were unfounded. I'd laugh if it wasn't so painful. I'd laugh, if only to corrode all the bitterness and regret that follows with me wherever I go.
Here, my skin burns with eternal ice. Goosebumps rise, and fall on the skin remained to be frostbit. I am clothed, but not covered, if only to taunt me of the aspect of warmth.
My breath is but a reminder that I will never feel heat that lasts for more than one moment.
I will never be warm again, and I will choke in endurance, wishing that death would envelop me, and that all of my limbs would decay in the cold.
But that's the way that torture works. I am already dead. And I will never die again.
Getting used to hell is not a possibility. Things will only get worse.
And I will only be more trapped.
If I hadn't been so deafened by the sound of human logic, the eternal cries of fetus's would never slice through my sanity, or leave my mind to fester, as I wonder halls whose doors are portals to pools of abortion.
They're still alive here, and they're clawing at the porcelain, in the waters of embryonic fluid, until I'm immersed within them, gagging on the smell of viscous death, when I'm not underneath becomming one of them, gurgling in agony myself, and wondering why I'd been abandoned here.
If I hand't been so deafened by human logic, perhaps I could have saved myself.
Instead I am here. Nauseated by acidic hunger pains, and weak enough to collapse on to my knees. Exhausted, but unable to sleep. Starving, yet unable to eat.
If I would have known of this hell, was there a chance I might have saved myself?
Or would the simple fact that the only reason blood shed of another would never reach my hands
was to save myself of torture, be enough to hold me tethered to the pain that is my death.

-------------------------

Yeah, I'm really not too fond of this.
But whatever.



-Miranda