grossly sincere

You are rotting. You are rotting, and your skin is starting to slip off. You are rotting, and the maggots festering in your wounds grow plump as they feed off your rancid corpse. You are rotting, and the floorboards give your body, blooming with decay, a welcome embrace. You are rotting, and it is only getting hotter.

You have been rotting for days on end, and it seems like you are unable to stop. You are reckless with your rotting, making a mess on your bedroom floor, on the nice rug your parents gave you when you moved away for good. You are rotting, and the plants your roommate gave you watch your body transform as they starve, thanks to your carelessness. You are rotting, and nothing can be done about it.

You are rotting. But you were once alive—alive and not rotting. Why can’t you go back to that?

You were once alive, giving your very best to strange men whose eyes rarely met yours, but whose lips crawled all over your body. You were once alive, holding doors for the elderly, charming their wrinkled faces into a smile with your chipper demeanor. You were once alive, and the grass tickled your skin, damp with sweat, under the burning sun, alone in the field. You were once alive, and there was something to look forward to.

But now, you are rotting. You are rotting, and there is nothing to look forward to, and there is no other choice but to rot. Soon, you will have been rotting for so long, you will become nothing but a stain on the floor, a reminder that someone was rotting there, and that is all you will be remembered by.

Goodbye, rotting corpse. That is all you are.