A Slow Decomposition

Hello, again, friends; I've been distracted by obligations, floundering relationships and long bouts of inspection. Too lazy and hot to type up what's new, I began a project to compile some work into a neat collection and pretend it was a complete and completely original book. I sadly missed the deadline, but here's a poem to keep you thrilled, that I hope (and did run a quick check) I hadn't posted before.

Something in my room smells

like rotting flesh, and

I think it’s me.

Secretly decaying

still breathing,

being eaten from the inside

by intestinal worms

and devoured

on the outside

by bacteria

invisible enemies and

pain.

I take a sniff on my clothes,

sheets, and pillows but

to no avail,

the stench only stays when I

can’t smell anything else

only myself

and I wonder if it’s started:

the slow

steady

decline

to

nothing