In the silence of my own skin, I conjure a retreat,
where my body folds, a quiet so complete.
A surreal feast, where flesh consumes itself,
lips upon lips, like books pulled from the shelf.
This self-devouring vision, grotesquely serene,
in the swallowing, I find a space so clean.
No horror here, in the closure of form,
only the peace of a self-made storm.
Lips devouring each other in a slow hold,
seeking nothingness, finding a trace
of a world where my shame has no place to stand,
in this imagined void, I command.
Vanishing point, where I fold and fade,
inward I turn, the world’s noise unmade.
A blank space emerges where pain once thrived,
in the silence of not being, I’m strangely revived.
Here in the depths of an inward hell,
I find a heaven where I can dwell.
Imagine the calm of a landscape so bare,
nothing left to take, nothing left to wear.
A self-consumption that cleanses the past,
eradicating shadows my form has cast.
So let me fold, let me quietly go,
into the fold, where I’m no longer for show.
A blank space, serene, where my fears cease to chase,
in the quiet self-consumption, I find my truest place.