Rotting

I am still.

Still, yet I feel everything. The quiet symphony of decay.



The air has left my lungs; the rhythm of my heart is silent. And yet, there’s motion. There’s… life. Not mine, but theirs. The maggots.



I wanted to be remembered. I thought death might make me eternal. But I’m not immortal—I’m dinner.



I used to be whole. Now, I’m soup. Thick, pungent, putrid soup. Do they savor me? Do they taste the salt of my tears, the bitterness of my regret? Or am I just… sustenance?



My hair slips from my scalp like grass pulled from wet soil. Bones peek through the tattered remains of what once was me.



I was once beautiful and lively. I was a photographer, capturing beauty wherever I went. And now, death has captured me.



Do I stink? Oh, I must. I can sense the foulness, the sour perfume of death, radiating from every fiber of my being. Once, I wore Chanel. Now, I wear decomposition.





I thought death was the end. A grand curtain call. But no one told me about this second act—the rot, the feast, the grotesque inevitability of becoming nothing.



What will they leave behind? A pile of bones, bleached and forgotten? Or will they take even that, leaving no trace of who I was? I had dreams once. Love, passion, heartbreak. Will they remember ny compositions? Did my exhibitions mean anything to anyone?



Now… now I am dirt. Dirt that feels. Dirt that watches itself fade. I’ll be gone soon, entirely. The maggots will finish their work, and then I’ll belong to the earth, to the worms, to the roots.





Maybe that’s all I’ve ever been. A temporary arrangement of flesh and bone. Meant to rot, to nourish, to disappear. But why does it have to hurt?





Let them have me. Let them take me, piece by piece, bite by bite. For when there is nothing left of me, maybe—just maybe—I’ll find peace.





And if not peace… then silence.