Rot; is it there

There is a rotting smell in my head.
It is stuck in my nostrils,
burrowing under my skin.
I don't remember when the infection started.
I don't know where the first cell turned.

There is a sickness in my stomach.
It is clawing its way up my throat,
trying to force my mouth open
to spit out a list of every disgusting fault I possess.
A high, violent ringing kills the quiet in my ears
a loop of words I would scream to forget.


I tried to show them the decay.
I tried to talk.
They looked away. They argued.
They told me I am just "not myself."
They told me to stop.
They told me it is not that deep.

So maybe there is no rot.
Maybe it never was.
Maybe I am nursing this maggoted thing because my hands are empty and I have
nothing else left to hold.

But it did come. Once.
I thought I knew how to get it out.
I thought if I peeled back enough skin, I could make it leave.
I thought I was fixing it.

I was a stupid, stupid fool.
It didn't go anywhere.
It was just waiting for me to tear a big enough hole to let the rest of it in.
They were right. I'm not myself.
I'm not in here anymore.
There's just a wet, heavy breathing where my chest used to be,
and it made the world stop,
just in time for me to see.