I'm withering away,
a wispy soul on brittle bones.
You give me all of this proof you love me
and I fall apart.
I'm an eyeball to the left,
some crushed up bone to the right,
a pile of tears and decay,
maggots eating away at the leftover tissue.
I can't move my fingers or my toes.
I can't escape this gradual death.
Even as I die and decay,
you still find me beautiful
but all I need is a doctor.
