Word vomit

I am an empty shell made of sand.

Black cockroaches crawl through the cracks,

my skin crumbles at their wing beat.

I feel the irritation in my intestines as it wriggles around.

Small feet hook into the wet, fleshy walls of my throat.

I regurgitate.

The itch scratches at my jugular.

As I puke up the words, flies get stuck in my teeth.