My veins are not full of blood. They are full of lead. Toxic and heavy, each heartbeat is just one less moment until I die.
It is hard to move. I am sitting at the bottom of a swimming pool. It is peaceful and I love to watch the light filter through these molecules, but my lungs are burning.
My body is a container of instincts and dread and it is trying to rise. It is trying to save itself. I do not want to be saved. This is my skin, and under it are poisonous veins.
Breathing air is like writing. Each inhale is a letter, every exhale the end of a word. Eventually, you stop. You put away your paper or your pen runs out. Either way it is over. You have no air.
My bones are hollow, all of the heart long since worn away. something else has crept in. We are small in the face of infinity. We are less than ants. Who are we to decide we matter.
There is grey slime inside of them. It is sticky and cold. It stains my nails, it takes the color out of my skin. On my tongue it tastes a lot like a lack.
My fleshy, soft, warm insides are dissolving. My body is eating itself, killing itself from the inside out. It is a long way to fall. It is as slow as a funeral march. I do not have much left.