Body of Evidence

If your body houses your soul, what happens when someone changes the locks?

-Victim #156,781,209

 

The Lie I told was that I loved

I made a choice, and it was right.

I left myself, and flew above

The Thing happened on that night.

 

They say that you must leave your body

When someone takes it away

And dream of all that’s good and holy

While the devil has his day.

 

My body is the evidence,

A crime scene now long since gone cold,

The proof that human souls are fiction,

The greatest lie we ever told.

 

The only way that I knew how

To keep others from discovering

The awful truth that I’d become

Was to end the lie of loving

And destroy the evidence.

 

But it didn’t make sense.

 

Where does it end?

 

I lay the blade across my wrist,

And yet the memories persist,

Of exiting my body while it was beaten

and eaten.

I trace the delicate trails of atrocity along my veins. If it spills, will it stain the ground?

Will my tainted evidence be found?

 

In my flesh, I see the universe’s end.

 

I was killed when you touched me. I drag my mutilated body through the world, entrails and feces in place of life. Bile fills me and oozes forth to no shrieks of terror. A rotting murder victim without the decency to die.

 

And so I tell the Lie.

And claim I’m still alive.

And the expected structure of existence resumes its place

Upon my face

 

The only way that I know how

To prevent others from knowing

The Secret that I must hold now,

That I must always keep from showing.

 

The Lie I tell is that it’s done,

It’s in the past, the wound has healed.

But I have not even begun

To face the Thing that has congealed

 

Into the black stain on my life, fucked there by force.

At least no one minds the smell of my corpse.