my body is a graveyard

something under my skin is itching and ill scratch myself raw to get rid of the feeling
it is like the pile of trash filling up and making my room smell as rotten as the inside of my heart
yknow ive watched enough criminal shows to know what to do with a rotting body but i dont even know where to begin if that body is mine and im still living in it
im living amongst long showers and piles of clothes littered on my floor
i keep tripping over the same boots, too tired, too pathetic, too saddened to move them
its starting to make the feeling itch even more i hate living in this filth but i dont have the time to clean it up
i dont have the time to stick my fingers between my rib cage and extract the rotting organs
i don’t have the heart too hah because i think that maybe a new body, maybe better than this junk yard wouldnt be the same
it wouldn’t have my ansgt or my loud punching walls and stomping anger
it wouldn’t have the bottle of air thats supposed to be filled with tears
im not emotional because i refuse to cry
crying means i am weak and i let them win crying means i did not have the strength to wipe the blood off and pick at the scab a week later with a nostalgic feel crying means i lost and i hate losing
it wouldnt be me
im trying to replace the malicious and pungent smell of insomnia filled nights with a side of nightmares that i see every night
im trying so hard to replace them with homemade jewelry and flower wall papers and bright nail polish and dark lipstick and smiles and baked cookies but everything is tainted now
its gilded; on the surface they shine like emeralds and rubies and amber but theres corruption and blackened souls and anger and clenched fists and bad habits just waiting to emerge
fortunately everyone’s nose doesnt notice the smell of rotting flesh and sleep deprived eyes rolling out of the sockets
they dont notice the half moons stamped purple under the empty sockets
or the cracked lips, sewn together by deep rivers of blood
they dont notice the patches of black hair littered upon the garbage dump that is my room, impulsively cut with immediate regret
no one even notices the chipped and bitten nails, the only thing in the trash can
no one notices because theyre all dealing with other shit, which is fine really
im used to covering my scent of decomposing body amongst late nights listening to night driving music and playing scenarios in my head, hoping itll transfer my dreams (it never does)
and im used to spraying perfume and putting lotion on my face and hands, both strong enough to mask the scent
im used to peeling my skin back when night is not a time but a liminal place where everything is fuzzy and nothing is real
peeling the it back so gently and trying to grab onto a putrid organ, too afraid to touch it
i have an itching feeling under my skin and my body is going to die before im ready to go