The Horde

They keep coming.


My back is tired, I've been standing
at the ready
all alert

for so long I don't remember
how long anymore.

Slogging through
blood to my ankles
and hearing the squish
of my weight atop

something, I don't know
(intestine)

Climbing this grotesque
mountain of
twisted flesh that never belonged
to anyone, really.
My hands are shaking
with exhaustion
because

they don't give me weapons.

It's just me here
right now
waiting for the
next
wave.


And I know it will come.

I try to take
this moment
and be present,
take a selfie next to the corpse pile.
Living in the moment like
this isn't a nightmare that I
have to see
all
the way
through

I've heard the things
they tell me
about myself and where
I should be

right now.

But I can't finish that thought.


Next wave's here.

The horizon grows dark
and I hear them.
Buzzing
rumbling
babbling
shrieking

It's a little like the fallout
from a mushroom cloud,
sweeping the ground in
a giant, consuming fog.

They descend.

I wish
I had a weapon.
My hands are
so tired.

I grab
and rip
and tear
and smash
I wrestle
and twist
and snap
and

peel, sometimes.

And the screams
are all mine
And the howling, too.
My lungs burn for another drag
of this heavy hopeless air
that does not keep me
alive.
Each breath I take
ends in an unholy sound
from the very pit of me.

They're slithering
all over me
caressing me with cold and slimy fingers
soft whispers of dead breath in my ear

so intimate

They know me
so well

I strangle
and punch
and scratch
without stopping
because stopping
isn't an option
here, no matter how much
my hands hurt
(I would kill for a nap, but you can only kill
alive things).

Crack the bone,
rip the skin,
throw it on the pile.
Twist the neck,
squeeze the throat,
watch it collapse against me.

Throw it on the pile.

The swirling chaos
all around makes it feel
like I'm fighting a tornado
with corpse arms.
There is no end.



Until there is.


When the last
mutilated
hunk of flesh is thrown atop the pile,
I try again.
My feet squelch
in some kind of offal
that never had an anatomist of its own

I grab
and heave
and pull myself up

I've heard
what they say.
("Aren't you over it by now?")
Everyone has
an opinion on how I fight the horde.
("Sometimes you have to let go.")
But nobody else
can do it.

Nobody can even
give me
a weapon.

The pile
keeps getting taller with every wave.
It's been
a busy week.
I grapple with
a stump of some limb or other
and pull myself
to the top

and wait

for the next wave.