The Rotting Verse

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t have read.

It knows your name.

It knows you’re dead.

—

It started small—a tickle, a twitch,

A crawling itch beneath your skin.

That wasn’t just a shiver, love.

That was how it gets within.

—

It seeps like water, black and thick,

Behind your eyes, between your ribs.

A thing with fingers far too long,

That splits your lips and wears your grin.

—

It writhes inside—each nerve, each vein,

It slithers, chewing at your brain.

Your tongue feels wrong?

Your teeth feel loose?

It’s changing you. It’s coming through.

—

Look at your hands. Do they still move?

Do they feel numb? Do they feel used?

That’s not a shadow at your back.

That’s not your heartbeat going slack.

—

It takes its time, it likes the wait.

It hums its hunger in your fate.

You think you’ll last? You think you’re whole?

It’s almost done with just your soul.

—

By dawn you’ll scream, but no one hears.

By dusk your voice will turn to smears.

By midnight you will walk its path.

And someone else will read and laugh.

But they won’t laugh for very long.