Rot

I carry around a corpse with me. It crushes me wherever I go. I have to hide it, it is the emergency to hide it and the urgency to be seen. It is the problem no one can answer. I can’t leave it at home, I need to drag it, wash it, feed it. Everyone is aware, but somehow it stays hidden in the uncomfortable silence that follows us. I try to tense it’s face so it looks normal, so it looks alive. A pantomime.

I carry around a corpse. People talk to it and hug it. They show sympathy. It asks me every half hour for a cigarrette and a sip of diet coke. I follow the instructions to keep it lean, as much as posible. Is heavy enough as dead as it is, it wont eat anything for two days to be as lovely as ever. How bad can it be? It is already dead. Ripe, rotting.

I carry around a corpse and it hurts everywhere. At some point, it was light; new, shining, brilliant. It could do anything. But it has always been gone and I carry with it. It is a symbiotic relationship. It helps me pretend to be here even when everyone knows about the proximity of my sudden farewell. I feel how it’s brain coagulates, how it’s ideas stay in a suffocating fog of meaningless memories. I feel how it’s hands can’t write as it used to. How constipated it mind is. To write an idea is to suffer, as if letters were the tip of a needle between the flesh and the nail.

I carry around a corpse. I am my own corpse. My vital cogency and my body are divorced. I fell how my flesh start to drag me down on a perpetual fatigue. I need everything that my spirit can give so I can get out of my bed in the morning. I doubt I have the strength to keep the charade for much longer. Should I ask for help to carry it around?

Cope with me and the corpse that I am. Cope with the corpse. I don’t know if it could feel any different. Why do I expose myself like this? Aren’t we supposed to carry our corpse in silence? Being a functional adult was supposed to be like this? I am not special enough to be the only one that carries a corpse. I hate my corpse, I hate how heavy it is. How many possibilities has it lost? I should be thankful for it but it hurts.

It fucking hurts.