it is the feeling of death that sits at the bottom and it's red and pulsating and every now and then it whimpers

softly inside of you but it doesn't cry and it doesn't wail and it doesn't bang on the walls

omniscient and red and there and it weighs you down, grounds you, and you could scratch at it all you want

it is a stubborn scab that won't rip off

and all you want is that feeling of liberation, that rush, alleviation from this heaviness that is attached to you and stuck to you

it is the feeling of death that feeds on you, growing as your hair grows, growing as your fingernails grow, after you've ripped them all off

you can't consume it because it is part of you and in that split moment of a day when you are too weak and too tired to remember when you felt without

you are glad that it's there, that it roots you to the floor and inhibits you because that is what holds you when no one else will

and that is all

you have