sombre

lilac eulogies

2:25 AM — tuesday october 5th

the night never ends, it just stretches. long and heavy. i haven’t slept in three days. my skin feels tight, like it’s shrinking, like it’s curling up from the edges. there’s a smell. i thought it was just the walls, something growing, festering, but i think it’s me. my breath rots in my throat, curls back into me, sour and wet.  

i opened the fridge and stood there for too long. something moved in the dark, something inside. the smell hit me then. rancid. death soaked into the vegetables, everything soft, slick. i laughed. the way the lettuce drooped, like it had given up. i slammed the door shut but the stench clung to my nose, followed me to the couch. i sit in it now. the cushions hold my shape, an imprint of someone who isn’t really here anymore. 

it feels like the whole world is decaying. 

earlier, i went out. the street lights hummed and flickered, casting shadows that stretched and stretched like long fingers, and i felt them on my skin, tugging at me, pulling me somewhere darker. i tried to light a cigarette but my hands shook. it burned too fast. i watched the ash grow long, crumbling, the embers glowing before they died. i wanted to reach into my chest and pull something out. rip it from the roots. i don’t know what’s left in there but it feels like it’s rotting too. 

in my dreams, i see her. her body crumples, dissolves into the dirt, into the floor, into me. i feel her breath on the back of my neck when i wake, but when i turn, it’s just the dark, just me, just my own empty hands and hollow throat. i laugh sometimes. the kind of laugh that gets stuck halfway out. the kind that makes your stomach ache.  

everything is so quiet now. it’s so loud. 

i touch my face, feel the bones underneath, sharp and brittle. if i press too hard, i might break, might fall apart. maybe i already have. 

the smell is still there.