My body is rotting. My mind is rotting. Chunks of flesh and thought putrify and fall off; full of pus and hate and stale blood.
I feel it, I feel it happen. I feel my cells, my neurons dying. I feel every single one, every last one, gasp in pain. I hear their death-rattle echoing in my ears.
In the night, the night, they die. I am rotting.
I wonder if the end will come quickly, or if I will lose an ear, a finger, an emotion at a time. I think it is more likely that the poison is eating away at my connections. At the points where one bone meets another, where my thoughts converge. One day, soon or late, these connections will all snap at once, and I will fall into a pile of parts. My thoughts will be unlinked; flying free and solitary. They will waste away and die, too, for no thought can survive without another to sustain it, develop it.
I will be a pile of parts. Rotten. Flies will buzz and breed on my remains and maggots will flourish.