I feed on what’s left of me.
day after day.
it’s not hunger, not really.
more like… maintenance.
keeping the rot from falling apart too fast.

the demons
they don’t scream anymore.
they hum.
soft, constant,
like the sound behind silence.

I tell myself it’s discipline.
that I’m fighting.
that I’m becoming.
but I know what that smell is.
I know what it means when the mirror looks tired before I do.

sometimes I think the rot isn’t decay.
maybe it’s transformation.
maybe I’m not breaking, I’m… refining.
yeah.
refining.
that’s what I said last time, too.

there’s no redemption.
no release.
just the slow rot of trying again.
again.
again.

I forget what I wanted to fix.
I just remember the shape of the wound.
it’s familiar.
it’s home.

and I feed on what’s left of me,
day after day,
so the demons won’t starve.

two_o_three_no_more_me

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two_o_three_no_more_me

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