You smell of dead flowers.

there are eyes and there are voices

there are faces and there are lungs

there are thoughts and there are feelings

And I am with/out them.

My head is a cavernous, empty shell. Spiders snake about the ivory, useless marrow letting the scuttling of hairy, alive legs echo through what’s left. 

I don’t like my eyes.

They’re too large and too empty. 

I see their pupils. The shattered mirror, the grime dragging its bleeding body across the broken glass. My pupils are black seeds, black concentrations of shriveled up veins and white circles of dead space.

There is rot in the air.

And the source of the rot is in front of me.

you smell of dead flowers 

i smell of the sewer i rot in 

I’m ashamed of all that I am now. 

Look! It’s 

you!

Trace what’s left of your flaking skin and try to save 

what’s rotten, okay?

Who broke me?

Who spread my viscera across the bathroom tile? Who took my organs and let them fall onto the slick, white floor? 

There is blood.

I don’t know why it’s here.

I am rotten.

I am truly, truly horrible. 

I’m 

sorry 

for

everything.

And yet, a part of her wanted to ask— well, wanted to scream—

how did you not know?

“How did you not know that I was rotten?”