Getting to the Meat of Me

It’s a ball of quills

quivering in constant motion

that I hold tightly in my hands,

trying to contain it,

and the more I squeeze

the deeper each quill digs,

parting my flesh to get to the meat of me

and its’ poison seeps,

slowly at first and then

quicker, faster, rapidly

growing closer, nearer,

following the vines of my veins

until it reaches my heart.

The sound beating grows erratic,


losing natural rhythm until my cells

are replaced with apprehensions

and each desperate beat of my heart

ticks a clock’s time,

and I squeeze tighter in my pain,

enhancing the quill’s power

in the act of suppressing.

I would really like an opinion on this. I wrote it in the middle of pre-exam stress, but I feel like it can relate to more than that. I’m also having trouble with the title, so any input on that would also be greatly appreciated. What I have right now is spur of the moment… I’m not really sure what title really fits.