It’s rumbling deep inside my ribcage,
a flustered frenzy of irregular beats and
bile forcing its way back up from
my stomach and into my rubbed raw throat.

The knife is in my hands.

My old friend, how I’ve missed you.
I used to ring you up every day and
you would whisper comforting words into my skin,
blood lazily rolling down my ivory skin.
You tainted me, but you completed me.

I need a fix.
Drugs.
Alcohol.
Sex.
A distraction.
Anything.

My skin is falling off my bones,
I’m tearing myself apart limb from limb.
It’s not like I need my body anymore,
no one needs it when you’re dead.