BED ROTTING

I sink.

𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥.

The mattress swallows, holds, keeps.

(𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙛𝙩. 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮.)

I don’t move.

I should move.

I won’t move.

I can’t move.

*

The air is 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬, stale with yesterday’s breath,

curtains drawn against the sun.

I can’t stand to see the world exist

while I am barely h e r e.

*

My phone, a dim glow against my sheets,

feeds me everything I hate,

everything I can’t stop watching.

𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭.

𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩.

𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭.

*

A war I can’t stop.

A life I won’t live.

A meme that makes me exhale just enough

to pretend it was a laugh.

*

The world outside hums without me.

I double tap.

I refresh.

I decay.

*

The hunger comes in waves.

But it’s never real hunger,

just the urge to fill.

*

Another bag of chips.

Another spoonful of something sweet.

Another excuse to keep my hands busy,

to keep from feeling

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙨𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜.

*

If I am going to rot,

let me at least be f u l l

of something.

*

I do not remember the last time I spoke aloud.

But I hear voices in my head—

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨.

*

𝘌𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳.

𝘓𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯.

𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦.

𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦.

*

I do not move.

I should move.

I won’t move.

I can’t move.

*

The sheets smell like sleep and skin,

like all the nights I spent staring at the ceiling,

counting the cracks,

𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙨,

trying to find a reason to get up tomorrow

when I never really finished today.

*

It’s not that I want to disappear.

It’s just that I already have.

-

Somewhere between

the overeating,

the doom scrolling,

the pressing, sinking, keeping…

I lost the feeling of being real.

*

And if I wait here long enough,

maybe the world will notice I am missing.

Maybe the world will come find me.

*

The curtains are drawn, yet light still slips through,

𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥.

I turn my back to it.

*

I move around the gloomy house sometimes,

searching for a thing or two,

just enough to pretend I did something.

*

But I didn’t.

-

My mind says I’m rotting.

Says I’m doing nothing.

-

So I let the bed take me again.

*

I wonder if the world is still moving.

I wonder if people are saying my name.

I wonder if my name even sounds right anymore,

if it belongs to me,

or if I left it somewhere between yesterday, last week maybe?

and whatever day this is supposed to be.

*

I should get up.

I should move.

I should do something that makes this body feel like mine again.

_

I don’t.

_

Instead,

I scroll.

Instead,

I eat.

_

I rot.

*

Because I don’t know what else to do

when the bed rotting hits….

It’s a cycle I’ve been in since I was a kid.

*

(Exhales sharply, bedsheets pulled over my head, phone in hand—fingers hover, then tap. Posted. Goodnight. I pray for energy tomorrow—to rise.)