sometimes it's the nails on my fingertips, sometimes it's the skin bitten off of my lips, I'm laying in this bed as I'm eating myself alive
either out of desire to escape or a way to sustain some obscure feeling of existing despite living a life that only consists of rapid decaying

my stomach's mostly filled with my own finger nails and skin,
but no matter how many years pass, i can't seem to swallow myself whole

the me that exists today is just something i unwillingly regurgitate