Where Do You Bleed when Others Hold You

The hairs of your skin wiggle from snakes of a psychosis,  
and any neurotypical that sees you demorphs to salt.  
 
When you were embraced,  
what parasitic mind seeded into your nerves  
that hatching eggs would hotroll your crystalline reflection into poverty of self-love?  
 
Where did you bleed  
when the others held you  
in the smoke of altered consciousness?  
 
Are the others  
compromise after their exerted addiction,  
you having contracted their septic seed,  
left you writhing in own loath among the acid belly walls of a thought terminal contagion?  
 
At the offering of the perfect lamb, your eyes dipped  
to those portal gates that quarantine your rabid past  
though the gargoyle wears a paper talisman  
of all the names of the carriers  
on the fur of a lion with a mane of serpents and pupils of a goat  
and rat tail.  
 
Your eyes are masked of congealed blood,  
some high, no, some degenerative blindness  
that the people who held you to the burial of your pride  
are the ones still holding you now.