Shackled

The deadweight of a corpse serves as the collar around my neck. Spikes pointed inward, a metal so rotted it stains the surrounding flesh with bitterness.

The deadweight of a corpse serves as the pound of flesh false prophets demand as tithe, chunks of soul ripped apart by the jagged teeth of their worshippers.

The deadweight of a corpse serves as your consequence, punishment for the wicked act of being born. A mother’s body desecrated and broken, only to learn that all children must one day come to an end.

The deadweight of a corpse serves as the blooming of your subconsciousness, your inner self emerging from the cocoon woven from coarse strands of consciousness and sorrow.

The deadweight of a corpse serves as your death sentence, a reminder of the blood spilled in the name of existence.

To walk an eternity with your own corpse chained to your being is a cruelty all too many are familiar with.

The lesson is not to sever the tie that binds you together, for you cannot untether yourself. The lesson is to honor the parts of you that died so long ago, as to not forget how far they got you.