Hentai Hands

The past's men are pulling at me, 
unwashed drug-smeared hands 
dug into my atriums and ventricles,
pulling apart my heart like lego pieces
to put together a misshapen moa. 

They stick their grimy fingers through my mouth,
down my throat, stretching out my oesophagus,
until my breath becomes them.

They grab my diaphragm,
pull, push, pull, push,
inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. 

I look them in the eyes,
without a returning gaze,
their faces drowned in darkness,
yet I feel them:

wrists like tentacles slithering up my legs,
between them, into every orifice, 
until I'm choking on them,
tears like waterfalls on pockmarked terrain,
like pre-cum crawling down a cock. 

Ten index fingers in my pussy,
three middle in the ass,
a tube toy for male appendages — with a soul in between. 

They're in my eye sockets, 
popped the balls out to fit their own. 
Pop. Pop. They roll across the floor. 

I'm a gory graveyard of all the abuse I've ever lost. 
They tug and twist until there's a snap in my right knee,
the left, bent out of the way to fit all the fellows
I once promised my spirit and slut to. 

Eardrums burst under the cacophony of echoes, 
and oh how I miss them all. 
I am an orgy for creatures of weaponised incompetence
clumsily crashing through my faith and falling away.