sombre

mallow eulogies

1:37 AM — sunday october 17th

the walls peel away, layers of skin folding back, curling into themselves like dead leaves. the room smells like something forgotten, something buried under rot. i watch it, the ceiling, how it sags like old flesh, crumbling in its tiredness, dust falling like dandruff. i can’t stop seeing it. i can’t stop seeing decay.

last night, i dreamt of a place without time. everything blurred, smudged at the edges like a memory you want to erase but can’t. i was floating, or maybe sinking—i don’t know anymore. the air felt thick, too thick to breathe, like i was drowning in it, sinking into something darker. the light was strange, too soft and sickly, yellow like pus. in the dream, i could hear voices, distant and whispering, but no one spoke to me. i felt them watching, their eyes crawling over my skin. i didn’t want to wake up.

there’s something wrong inside me, but it’s quiet. it hides in the corners where i can’t quite reach. it festers. grows.

i feel disconnected, like a doll with its strings cut, limbs hanging loose, waiting for someone to pick me up and make me move again. but no one does. no one ever does.

i don’t know if i’m still alive, not really. my reflection doesn’t feel like mine anymore. my hands look pale, almost translucent, veins like rivers branching under skin too thin. it’s disgusting. i avoid mirrors now. my body is changing in ways that make me sick, as if something beneath the surface is eating me from the inside out. i can feel it, sometimes, gnawing at my bones.

maybe it’s always been there, waiting.