Stained
By
Seth O'Neal
The pungent scent of mothballs and stale urine suffocates my breath.
My room is pitch-black. Is it early or late?
Time is a frivolous concept when you’re already one foot in the grave.
I’m an unwilling participant on a merry-go-round of monotony.
The air is hushed—an auditory expansion on pins and needles.
Pinned to my back by my growing pains.
Growing old still hasn’t grown on me.
A youth trapped in a necrotic corpse.
I’ve been given a map of varicose veins that can’t even get me to the toilet.
X marks the wet spot.
It's odd lying in your own bile.
Crippling yet simultaneously empowering.
It’s not without its benefits.
Being alone is an introvert’s wet dream, or it would be if not for the voices in my head.
Gnawing at the soft tissue in the back of my skull with chipped teeth--
hammering away with the dissonance of an out of tune piano.
I’m constantly at war with my heart, mind, and my mind’s mind.
Footsteps echo the hall outside my room--
nonchalantly clicking ruby slippers through the River Styx.
The only part of my anatomy that hasn’t shit the bed so to speak—my hearing.
A pale-faced shadow presses against the glass door to my room--
morphing into a blur that Picasso would be proud of.
It must be here to see if larvae are crawling on my skin,
which honestly sounds delightful.
I always wanted to be in a horror film.
It enters my room in a languid crawl--
advancing toward my putrid pool of waste--
and shame.
“Are we ready to die today?” they ask, flashing a coy smile.
Myself and the ten other people in my head debate the question with the curiosity of a child at an ice cream truck.
I find this laughable. I’m literally cracking myself up, or someone is—I think?
Do I really want to leave my piss palace? Here I’m both king, queen and knight.
Hell, I may as well be the whole damn chessboard.
Sir Shits A Lot first of his name. Eat your heart out Robin Hood.
You know what. Fuck it.
Pull the--
Seth O'Neal writes dark poetry and fiction from North Carolina’s Outer Banks. A musician and horror enthusiast, he frequently composes original scores to accompany his work. His writing is forthcoming in SCAB, and Belladonna’s Garden.
By
Seth O'Neal
The pungent scent of mothballs and stale urine suffocates my breath.
My room is pitch-black. Is it early or late?
Time is a frivolous concept when you’re already one foot in the grave.
I’m an unwilling participant on a merry-go-round of monotony.
The air is hushed—an auditory expansion on pins and needles.
Pinned to my back by my growing pains.
Growing old still hasn’t grown on me.
A youth trapped in a necrotic corpse.
I’ve been given a map of varicose veins that can’t even get me to the toilet.
X marks the wet spot.
It's odd lying in your own bile.
Crippling yet simultaneously empowering.
It’s not without its benefits.
Being alone is an introvert’s wet dream, or it would be if not for the voices in my head.
Gnawing at the soft tissue in the back of my skull with chipped teeth--
hammering away with the dissonance of an out of tune piano.
I’m constantly at war with my heart, mind, and my mind’s mind.
Footsteps echo the hall outside my room--
nonchalantly clicking ruby slippers through the River Styx.
The only part of my anatomy that hasn’t shit the bed so to speak—my hearing.
A pale-faced shadow presses against the glass door to my room--
morphing into a blur that Picasso would be proud of.
It must be here to see if larvae are crawling on my skin,
which honestly sounds delightful.
I always wanted to be in a horror film.
It enters my room in a languid crawl--
advancing toward my putrid pool of waste--
and shame.
“Are we ready to die today?” they ask, flashing a coy smile.
Myself and the ten other people in my head debate the question with the curiosity of a child at an ice cream truck.
I find this laughable. I’m literally cracking myself up, or someone is—I think?
Do I really want to leave my piss palace? Here I’m both king, queen and knight.
Hell, I may as well be the whole damn chessboard.
Sir Shits A Lot first of his name. Eat your heart out Robin Hood.
You know what. Fuck it.
Pull the--
Seth O'Neal writes dark poetry and fiction from North Carolina’s Outer Banks. A musician and horror enthusiast, he frequently composes original scores to accompany his work. His writing is forthcoming in SCAB, and Belladonna’s Garden.
