it coils inside you like a rope, frayed and burning
every nerve fibre on edge, sparking, fizzing, vibrating
you feel like you are not human, only a catalyst for temptation—greed, gluttony
your hands shake with the weight of your own hunger and indecision
“it’s not worth it” a voice says to you
it’s not your own, yet it does not belong to another
the fluorescent rays of the auditorium flicker, much like your own resolve, slowly dying, fading out into nothingness
your resolve a false god—something you hold onto, to prove that yes, you’re trying
you’re fighting a war, but your heart is tired
your armour crumbles around you
you reach out to your god—to pray, or beg?
the once solid image begins to falter
did it ever really exist to begin with?

the tendrils claw at your skin and wrap around your thin flesh like talons

you’re held in place, unable to move by this enigmatic force, a shadowed figure you still cannot seem to understand

it’s been years and you cannot free yourself from its grasp, no matter the tactic or weapon you choose to yield against it, you always seem to fail

in every universe?

you aren’t sure. hope is a dangerous and fickle thing, something you haven’t allowed yourself in some time now.

perhaps.

perhaps another.

it’s a masochistic thing, the imagination—what could have been, what could be, if only you were free.

you used to reach for it, before the fight became meaningless, simply fate, you think.

it’s not real.

not in this life.

you are doomed much like sisyphus, but your punishment is not the painless kind.

meaninglessness and despair.

two words you know all too well.

it won’t stop, the tendrils will keep coiling around your limbs, the shadows creeping in through your skin, into your bones, your soul, the very core of your being.

You start to shift away. Outward, you think. Your very existence, your mind starts to leech out from your body, slowly.

Your vision distorts with the shift in position, reaching toward the darkness, a realm without clarity. It must be colder there, you think, suddenly, because your body is freezing, every nerve fibre on edge, sparking and exposed.

Someone says something in the background, and that’s when you recognize that telltale sound. The audio is distorted, a far away murmur that cannot have any real significance.

A singular droplet of sweat runs down your protruding spine, and you can feel it trace its melancholic path down each vertebra, each notch handcrafted by your own misery.

“Are you feeling alright?”

A soft voice attempts to pull you from this realm unexplored, but your consciousness fights it. The noise around you is all but radio static, an incomprehensible symphony of otherworldliness.

Perhaps this world isn’t meant for you, but you always seem to return to it.

it cries and twists and moans
exasperatedly
as if years of classical conditioning mean nothing
there is no use for this hunger
yet it persists
and remains
like burying the undead
a corpse destined to rise again
it pushes upward through the roots and weeds, through the parched earth and soil giving way and shifting away from this unnatural disruption in the biome’s equilibrium
emerging into the light to walk with the living
insignificant
and unnoticed

like a rabid dog, stinking of neglect and the absence of a loving home
its bones protrude through thin layers of skin and fur it’s cultivated by its madness
how did it become like this?
how did it deteriorate so horrifically into such an unrecognizable thing?
a curse?
it thinks sometimes that it has been cursed, either by others or perhaps, more frighteningly, it’s own mind.
choice?
no. it can’t be that simple. surely nobody would choose this.
a twisted combination of the two?
it ponders as it prowls, on the hunt for a resource it won’t allow itself. just passing the time really.
children stare and point at the state of the animal’s ragged form, whispering about cause and effect.
a pitiful thing,
like a rabid dog
frightened by the bass of its own growl
it scares itself
does it scare you?

it rots inside you like the vile heaps at a garbage dump
decomposing, digesting
no flowers grow from this haunted garden

you use your body’s already limited resources to filter this waste you put into it
straining to process your own gluttony
your weakness

it fills the pristine void
causes your sunken vessel to swell and bloat
it causes what was once clean to become something grotesque
something shameful
something rotten

It no longer bothers you—the dull aching of your flesh, the sharpness of your bones. Bones protrude the skin, enveloping your tender self and vital organs like a cage, a protective barrier of stone that has risen from the soft earth beneath.

This cage is not new, it has only grown harder with the test of time, slowly expanding. Protecting.

Protecting what? Protecting your soul?
Is there anything left worth saving?

You hear a bird’s cry in the distance, the shuffle of carnivorous creatures looming around it, licking their lips, baring their teeth. They do not hide in the guise of darkness, no—they stalk in broad daylight, staring through the cracks in the barrier. Your terror is only a byproduct of their patience.

Fear is the only thing that penetrates this cage, making every little thing under your skin crawl.

Yet, you feel at home in this cage. It’s one you built yourself, and you get used to the fear. For the most part.

It becomes a kind of comfort, knowing what’s inside and what remains out. After a while, you think you’ll be okay here.

You’ll survive.

You find solace, knowing the corvids wait for your demise.