Habitatat.

My lungs are black,
not by cancerous chemicals,
nor tar.
They're slowly dying, rotting.

My liver is black,
not by consumption of liquor,
nor paint thinner.
It's slowly dying, rotting.

My fingers are bloody,
not by amputations,
nor scratching at sores.
Not by chewing my nails to the cuticle.
Not by holding newly exposed veins.

My extremities,
my innards,
my everything;
all that is my being.

I am slowly dying, rotting.

Like the many corpses beneath us,
fit with worms in the pockets of their evening attire,
I am rotting away in a snug wooden box.