Ditched

A dark poem of the end.

It hurts.
The brown splotches etch a painful pattern into my side. 
Sharp pain, not dull.

A little bit here and a little bit there — it spreads.
I wish I could avoid this disease, but I can’t.
Ate from the inside out, it’s cancer.
Some days I cry, but that only makes it worse.
The wetness of my sorrow feeds the disease which plagues me.

Inside me, people come and go. 
Leaving me filled with their emotional turmoil — I am a good listener.
I feel the bangs and booms, 
The screams and squelches of those inside me — I am a silent listener.

Deflated and unmotivated to move, I sit here. 
They come and go, but I am always alone.

This day was different, no one came — just blades. 
It hurts.

It ripped into my rotting flesh and lifted me into the air. 
I am abused.

In a single boom, I am on a cold metal surface. 
Mechanical sounds crunching above and below me.

AH!

Squish, crack, crunch, squelch
Squelch, crunch, crack, squish

No. P-l-e-a-s-e

(A sign in the distance reads: Carter’s Junkyard)

Prompt by Ravyne Hawke in Promptly Written: “Fiction Friday — an abandoned car.”