Make Your Victim My Soul. Poem by Brittney Karasek

Dust clings to my eyelids,
insects dance on my broken nails.
A mouth half opened,
with once perfect teeth chipped and cracked,
a film of filth is layered over the darkened white.
I'm made of little things, things that cannot think.
Take your pain out on me, I am your tourniquet.
I lay open and tattered in a room of breaking glass,
dirt and blood line the cracks on the walls,
magnetized like moths to a flame.
I am destroyed.