VIP Tickets To The Pity Party

The insects have been crawling
from my pores
week after week
I flick away an ant
it's replaced by a thousand spiders
When I write my name on the walls
with their insides
all i see is question marks
that make sounds
resembling the howls I once made
when I held my father's rotting hand
in mine
As the guts dry
I embrace it once more
and mouth some words
that could be a condemnation
a hopeful gesture
or gibberish
I fade with the rot
and dream of warmer
years