The Rotten

Dead, dead, I am dead.


Lying cold and still.
Arms gently resting at my sides.
Hands pulled to my chest.
No thoughts, no feelings.
Just emptiness.

Waiting.
Waiting to be lowered into my pit.
Waiting for the dirt to fall upon my face.
Waiting for the dirt to cover me.
Waiting to suffocate beneath the weight of all the earth.

Then it hits.
I knew not what I waited for.
I knew not this.

I sit up, stand up, dive down.
I grasp a shovel and collapse the walls upon me.
I laugh a hideous maniac repetition.
I find joy beneath the weight of all the earth.

Then I realize my position.
I struggle.
I gasp for new air that I do not yet need.
I long for rebirth, but it is out of reach.
Instead, I panic and seek out grubs and rotten flesh.
So close to my next life, do I feast now?

I stop and look around.
The grubs already devour the flesh.
It's all rotten and full of pus.
But I do not deserve better.
I do not deserve life anew.
And I begin to wander through hidden tunnels beneath the earth.

I dismiss my death.
I dismiss my old life.
I dismiss my next life.
I loathe my purgatory.
I embrace my hell.

Death and disease are mine to command.
The rats obey my call to claw at the eyes of my persecutor.
I embrace the darkness, element of my birth, element of my life, element of my death.
There is no other constant.

Darkness, when all else is lost, I still have you.