I think my life had an expiry date. It was long ago. I’ve gone off, become sour; nothing is as it’s supposed to be. I’m the forgotten milk in the fridge, the leftovers left to mould in the oven, the forgotten tin in the back of the cupboard. I’m existing because I haven’t died yet.
I cannot see a future. Sometimes I imagine it, make it up in my head but it feels like a story. It has an edge to it, like it’s CGI in a fairytale film.
People would miss me if I die. If I was able to disappear, it would ruin people’s lives. […]