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.