Depression

I feel a tearing pain through my body. It’s as if my bones would break at any moment. I can’t find the strength to perform any daily task. I feel an emptiness that is growing and filling up every space in my body until I lose consciousness of myself. The days blur together. I don’t remember the last time I felt anything at all. It’s as if a cloud has settled on my mind, a thick haze that blunts every emotion, every thought. Even in the rare moments when I look outside, I see no difference between the morning and the evening. I am caught in some endless grey, devoid of purpose or joy. But perhaps I’ve never really known joy, not truly. I am numb. Nothing holds meaning anymore. Not the sun, not the stars, not even the air that I breathe. What is the point of any of this? Is it even real?

Nihilistic Contentment

I wonder if it’s all just a farce. A cruel joke, played by the universe. If everything is meaningless, if existence is nothing but a brief and futile blip in an endless void, then why bother? Why bother with anything? Nothing matters. Not the relationships I had, not the work I did, not the things I thought I cared about. Everything, every single thing I’ve ever known, is destined to dissolve into nothingness. A mere flicker in time. If I were to disappear, would it even matter? Maybe this is how it should be. An existence so insignificant, it should never have been.

Delirium Mortems

I am fading away, slipping between worlds. I can feel it now, the strange sensation that I am no longer fully here. I catch glimpses of myself in mirrors, if that is even my reflection. The face staring back at me is distant, as if it belongs to someone else, or perhaps no one at all. When I speak, my voice sounds muffled, as though it is coming from a place I cannot reach. Am I still alive? I don’t know. I don’t feel alive. My thoughts are clouded, fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle that no longer fit together. I am untethered, drifting through a haze of fractured memories and sensations. The feeling I have is that at any moment a monster will come out of my skin. A monster tired of all this performance. Of all this vanity. Or could I be that monster? I walk down the street, and I can’t see the faces. All I see are evil presences, staring at me as I walk down the street. Or lurking in my house. They scream in a high-pitched voice: Look inside.

I can’t take it anymore. I’ll let it out.

Am I Dead?

Is this what death feels like? I don’t know. If I am dead, then why am I still thinking? Why can I still feel the weight of my body, even though it seems distant, as though it’s not really mine? I don’t feel hungry, I don’t feel thirsty. I don’t feel the need to perform any basic hygiene or survival activities. After all, I’m dead. My heart is no longer pumping blood through my body. My brain is a gray mass of memories that no longer exist. There is no pain, no finality, no release. Just this endless drift. And if I am dead, then what? Is this all that remains of me? A collection of half-formed thoughts, rattling in an empty mind? Or have I been cast into some hellish afterlife where the soul is tortured by the unbearable weight of its own futility? Perhaps death is not what I thought it was. Perhaps it is not an end, but a continuation an endless loop of despair. I’m watching my own body decay.

Decompose

Children of Death, destined to die. Never too young to be eaten by worms when it turns shit. We fight to hold on to what we know, but why? Why cling to this rotting shell of a body when it’s already crumbling from the inside out? It’s almost funny, isn’t it? The way we act like life’s some kind of precious thing, something to protect, to treasure. All this time, I’ve been dragging this corpse around like it’s worth something. But I know the truth now: it isn’t. I’m not alive. I’m just waiting for the worms to do their job.

It’s happening slowly, but it’s happening. My skin feels like paper, tearing at the edges. How long until it all just flakes off? How long until I’m nothing but a pile of dust and maggots, buried beneath the earth, forgotten like so many others? It’s not a matter of if; it’s when. And who cares when it happens? I certainly don’t. Maybe the worms will find me before I can get to them. Wouldn’t that be a nice change? They’ll probably get a good laugh out of it. They always do.

This flesh, this meat, it’s useless now. My heart keeps pumping, but it’s just a muscle playing an old song it’s too tired to sing. My lungs keep breathing, but for what? For whom? I don’t even remember why I’m still here. Every breath feels like a waste. Every movement, a joke. And yet, here I am, clinging to this flesh, like a kid clutching their toys, thinking they’re invincible. But I’m not invincible. No one is. Just look at me. Look at what’s happening. The body’s decaying. The mind’s decaying. Everything is decaying.

The question is: Why try holding on to what’ll be gone? The answer? I don’t have one. Maybe I’m just too tired to let go. Or maybe I’m already dead, and this is just some cruel, lingering afterthought. The worms will find me eventually. They always do.

Autophagic Commiseration

It’s the only thing left, isn’t it? Nothing else matters. Not the food they bring, not the way it smells, not the way it looks, because I’m dead. I know it. I can feel it deep inside, like a truth that’s too heavy to carry. So, if I’m dead, then what’s the point of eating, of pretending? It’s all pointless, all futile. I don’t need them anymore. I don’t need anything. I’ve already slipped past the point of no return. I can’t remember the last time I ate real food, real life. What does it matter? I’m dead. Maybe this is what it’s like to be dead, just… drifting. My body is nothing now but a shell, and it’s falling apart, like dust, like rotting wood. So why not? Why not consume it? I can feel the flesh tearing, the skin flaking off, but it’s mine, it’s me, it’s all I have left. I press my fingers into the soft, spongy flesh of my arm my arm, yes until it breaks open, until I can tear it off. It’s warm. Why is it still warm? No, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I’m already dead. There’s nothing wrong with this, is there? It’s all just… meaningless. I bite into it, the taste of my own flesh. It’s bitter. It’s salty. It tastes like despair, like death, like I’ve always known it would. What else is there? I’m already gone. It’s only the body left, a carcass rotting, but it doesn’t even feel like I’m eating anymore. I’m just… dissolving. I’m nothing. A hollow thing that still walks, still breathes, still hurts. It’s all a joke. My own flesh, the only thing I can consume, and even that is decaying. I can feel it, I can feel it rot in my stomach, in my soul. I don’t care. I can’t care. There’s nothing left to care about. Just this empty shell of a body, this empty shell of a life. I’m dead, but I’m still here. And I will keep eating, I will keep tearing into myself, until there’s nothing left, nothing to hold onto. Until there’s nothing left to rot away.

The Observer

The door was slightly ajar. I hadn’t meant to look in, hadn’t wanted to see it, but there it was, impossible to ignore. The stench hit first, like a rotten carcass that had been left to fester in the heat for too long, an overwhelming, suffocating odor that clawed at my throat and made my stomach churn. My eyes watered. I pushed the door open further, the hinges creaking like some old, tortured thing. I thought I was going to be sick. And then I saw him.

He was hunched over, his body twisted in a grotesque imitation of human form, crouched like some animal, some feral thing. His skin if you could even call it that anymore hung from his bones in tattered strips, a sickly, yellowish hue, as though it was melting off, barely clinging to the jagged protrusions beneath. His fingers, swollen and crooked, dug into his own flesh, pulling it free with unnatural force, as though he were trying to tear his body apart from the inside.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat as I watched him tear at himself, gnashing his teeth into the raw, exposed muscle. The sickening sound of it flesh rending, teeth grinding against bone, the wet squelch of his mouth full of meat was unbearable. It made my stomach lurch, but I couldn’t look away.

He was eating himself. Eating his own rotting flesh, ripping off strips of skin and sinew with his bare hands, swallowing it, chewing like it was the most natural thing in the world. Blood oozed from the gaping wounds, dripping down his body, pooling on the floor beneath him like some twisted, red puddle. The room was slick with it, thick and coagulating, the stench of decay so powerful it felt like it was suffocating me, wrapping itself around my lungs.

I stepped back, but the sound of my own movement seemed to draw his attention. His head snapped up, his eyes wide and empty, blackened orbs that glistened with a grotesque, feverish intensity. There was no recognition in them, only a void, vacant stare. His mouth was coated with blood, chunks of his own flesh still dangling from his lips. The corners of his mouth twitched, as though he wanted to speak, but no words came. Only a low, guttural growl, like an animal in pain.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Please stop.”

He didn’t hear me. Or maybe he did, but he couldn’t understand. His hands went back to tearing at his own body, ripping at the sinew, swallowing it whole. The sound of his jaws cracking as he chewed through the raw flesh was maddening. I wanted to scream, to run, to do something, but my legs felt like stone. I was frozen, rooted to the spot, watching as he consumed himself, as he destroyed what was left of his humanity.

There was nothing left of him now. Just a mangled, bleeding thing that was slowly fading into the madness of his own delusion. He wasn’t a man anymore. He was just… death. He had become death, chewing and swallowing, his own body betraying him in the most grotesque way imaginable.

And I could still hear the sound of it. The sound of him tearing himself apart. The sound of flesh being consumed. The sound of a man, or what had once been a man, slipping into a rotten abyss.

Co-Written with Mariana Toledo.