Ruined Walls and Dirty Bed Sheets

How can it be that something so far away
Could feel so close at the same time?
Something so plagued with nightmares
Could find it's way here and torment me with dreams
Of the place in which I once called home
Because I had nothing else to call so?
And how can it be that the church (who would
Always open their arms to those who would return to her),
Turned it's back and it's protective barrier
On one lost soul when it needed it the most,
Leaving my arms to take such scorn which was shown to me,
Through ruined walls and dirty bed sheets?

Rusty knives and hot, beating tongues kept searching
For such trails on which I mark with such disdain
And hatred, swooping to and from me,
In and out of me, and out of them as well,
Filling me, completing me,
Yet leaving me so heartbroken and empty simultaneously.
Blood spilled is the only way to show
The rejection, the meaningless void in which my life was
Sucked into by day, and rejected later by night,
Spitting me out and
Leaving only me stunned and terrified,
Crying behind those petrified walls, and filthy bed sheets.

And even now, as I lay flat on the floor, leveled with my security,
I can feel the goose bumps rushing up my arms--
Even though my skin and mind are dead inside.
And she's still out there, wondering why I'm not down,
Wondering why I haven't answered her calls
To come out of my Utopia, and into only theirs.
Perhaps she doesn't realize that I'm falling,
Drifting further and further away from this world.
The only feeling throughout my body is that of comfort;
The only smell verified is the scent of the blood dripping from my wrists,
Letting only that guide me to the delusion of my reality,
And away from these ruined walls, and dirty bed sheets.

-James Morgan