Hatred and spite flow from your lips,
But I will collect it.
Cupping these hands beneath your oozing jaw.
The black froth drips with a sickening sound,
But these hands will not be stained.

More.

Pour out that vileness inside you.
How long have you held onto this?
How long has it fermented inside you?
A bloated corpse drowned in bitterness.
More.
These hands will not overflow.
But see the mucus change,
Out from your core comes the mire;
It is black as a starless night,
And dense as a lead weight,
With a reeking, acrid, stench.

More.

It’s been so long within you,
This festering, cancerous, knot;
The progenitor of your cursed condition.
Now you’re struggling to breath,
The thick sludge clogging your throat.

More.

Cough it up,
Your sadness, your shame;
You were not born with this.
It is a virulent infection,
An abhorrent parasite.

More.

It cannot survive outside the body.
Release it, not just through your mouth,
But also through your eyes,
That the taint may be expelled more rapidly.
Even so, these hands are no more filled,
Than when you first began.

More.