The Death in Me.
I've laid faced-down for so long; my heart is asleep. It thumps like static through my atretic cavities. It contorts as my lungs try to scream it awake. Each breath prolongs the eventual decay of my diaphragm, even as my insides already float in it's own purulence. I'm such a corpse now, but you're not done with me. All I can taste is the rotting inside my tongue as you reach inside to further taint the nature within. I feel each vein in your fingers. My spine grows around them like a dark forest falsely looking for sunlight. All I can see is an autopsy as you bring them to my lips. I still feel those damned things on the inside, and I still taste you rotting in my tongue like the poison I ingested last summer. Like cyanide; a respiratory failure. I'm so dead now, but you're the ghost galvanizing my grave.
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