I always wonder if I'll be one of those people who end up rotting for weeks, forgotten, until someone notices the smell.
Unedited, knowing myself I prob won't finish it so here we go:
For the first time I witnessed how my death could be.
This is how my place would be when they found the body.
Kitchen sink full of dirty plates, bugs crawling in and out of the garbage can,
Spiders coming down from their web to catch them.
Chairs thrown around, tables upside down, a tower of clothing covering
most of the apartment room floor.
For days I contemplated the crime scene from the top of my high-bed.
The flood turned from glossy red to an old and rusted brown crust.
The scattered stains eventually stopped dripping; they were cracking.
I was peeking at my wounds, under the self-improvised bandages.
Checking to see if there is an infection just yet, checking to see my exploit.
Sometimes catching a glimpse of my pale and worn out face in pieces of the shattered mirror;
the crevasse beneath my frozen and icy eyes, the puffy cheeks, the rotten teeth.
Before finally scrubbing the floor like a criminal.
Sent from Omicron Persei-8