I am not lying now

It’s no heavy weight; no screaming pain or daily tears. It isn’t the agony of fear or anger or even upset. It’s a slow sinking; being swallowed by quicksand, disappearing.

My head is already well below eyesight and I know I’m being overlooked. No act of unkindness, just the silence of seeing so many eyes not seeing.

There’s numbness creeping up limbs, and clasping cunt, and lungs, and heart, and soon, before anyone knows it… consumed.

And there is so much in the whimpering romanticism of sadness into which teeth can be sunk.

Like decay creeping through dearhearts, watching them fall as they shrivel and there is nothing left behind but ashes. It is all stopped as they unwind; rewind– unwind.

• • • • •

When I count the events of my unravelling, it is no surprise really. No great mystery as to where she went, and why what is left is so much less.

And perhaps you’ll barely notice me leave. Perhaps you can look down at my swallowed body and imagine I am still present, shoulder-to-shoulder with you. Or better still, perhaps I will pretend for you. Meet your expectation and fulfil my role.

“…though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.”

Which is only so much gothic delight. To quote a serial killer and imagine it’s profound. That’s the hope, no? To exist in a way in which no one can touch. To be individual. The only one. Fame and fortune, or tragic hero, everyone dreams in some way of being unique.

But I do mean it; truly. When you say you understand, and I respond: “I hope you never know how this feels.”

I am not lying now.