Rotting, Internal

I ponder what clipped my tongue, and how I swallowed it.

I feel it in my stomach at all times, a certain stale fluid embalming around it, keeping my stomach distended.

Please stretch, don’t tear.

A flowing current down my sinewy limbs. A grotesque miscarriage of the sickened meat, now grey and rotting on the ground. I am soured, the spores blossoming into all the colours of my blood. 

I pray; I pray on my knees for the kismet of change. Of a casualty I do not have to contract against.

I pick it up, place it back into my warm mouth.

I crave all the difference between mortality and immortality