Rot

With a rusted metal spike,
A puncture is made
That lets a pressured breath
Escape it's ironed cage.

With a brother spike,
the spine is crumbled.
Each vertebrae screaming,
with a cry, that's muffled.

Another sister spike,
takes a victim of the throat.
Stifling your voice,
spluttering and mute.

A final mother spike
tears into the heart.
Contracting it's muscles,
clawing love apart.

You can hold the spikes
in your body like scars
bottled up, waiting
to let it all start.

But eventually the spikes
will begin to bleed
or rot with rust
or stop a route of life

And you'll have to face the problem
you left dwelling in your chest,
you can always keep it in,
but letting it out is best.

Even if that means,
you'll bleed until you die.
You would rather delay the inevitable?
I can't see why,

when you'll bleed anyway.
You'll remain in pain.
You can always keep it in.
Go ahead.
Rot away in shame.