The passer by denies my existence
with the confidence of their gait,
the steadiness of their gaze.
I peel back layers of skin
to show the shining mess, but
each time I’m swallowed by earth –
which in case you’ve forgotten
is cold, full of dead, sharp things.
It’s like fucking an iron maiden –
which, in case the information passed you by,
is a fictionalised torture device.
Make of that what you will.
– by Matt Alton