from the book of a dying patient from the words of a deceased soul from the thoughts of a dead brain i used to think life was better when i was alive maybe it's an obvious fact but i could still move freely i could still speak freely, dream freely i could still think coherently but now i am useless rotted to the bone the maggots are invaded my flesh and the knife has carved out my insides the insects have made a home out of my dying self my guts have spilled out scattered on the floor like my incessant thoughts like a sacred offering in an act of desperation to reverse the wheel of fate, and grant me more days but alas it proved useless in the end, just like my existence a little something to remember me by i'm sorry for existing for taking up space from others but you no longer have to worry about dead weight for now, i am a dead, back space. it's endless, unwelcoming, and deathly cold- blank, eternal death.