Auto-decomposition fantasy

     Sometimes, late at night, I catch myself rehearsing my own funeral in my head. I imagine my skin cold and pale, my corpse dressed up all pretty. I imagine lying in the coffin, arms folded. No air in my lungs, no beat of my heart. And yet some bright, diseased awareness clinging to my hollow shell. I dream of lying still as an altar while something unseen drifts its hands across me. A spirit, an angel, a God, a human, rot itself... It doesn't really matter what. Just that it's touching me.

     I want to be a ruin, an artifact of flesh, a cathedral of rot. I want to know what it’s like to surrender not just to death but to the things that live beyond death, the things that lick at the edges of the grave. To be touched not out of love but out of necessity. To be desecrated until there is nothing left to desecrate, to find freedom in the violation of the boundary between “alive” and “gone.”

     It’s disgusting. I know it’s disgusting... But that’s the point. It’s the ache at the base of my spine, the itch at the back of my skull. It’s not even lust, really... It's more like a craving to be consumed. To let myself just rot into something foul, yet holy at the same time.

     When I close my eyes, I can almost picture it. Livor mortis, rigor mortis, my hair falling out and my eyes falling in. Reaching for the light of the sun as it bakes me into the dirt. And sometimes, I almost wish it would reach for me before I reach for it.