It's useless, all that writhing, under your sticky-skin cocoon. Vomit lust and gluttony and stomach acid stains. You've trashed the temple, and now you'll choke; intestines slither up your torso, up and around, tight around your neck. You're nothing but filthy gutter-water cells, crying sperm out your eyeballs. You're inside-out and rolling in rock-salt. You're pulverized sex-flesh nothing.

The shame rots your organs. Shame for just being. There's nothing poetic about it.