I am nauseated by the scent of decay and rot.
I'm unsure whether it is seeping out of my pours,
or seeping out of my foul soul.
I rise, stumbling to the mirror to see if I am really still here.
My skin is pale and my body is frail.
My bones protrude out, as if they too are trying to escape from me.
I run my worn fingers over my tragic arms.
Those are not scars I tell myself, they are battle wounds.
My veins are salient and ripe for entry.
Where did I put my antidote?
I hope to find it in the carafe of aqua vitae
that is always strategically placed by the mirror.
It is no match for my dry mouth
and no liquid can extinguish the fire that burns deep within my core.
My reflection screams of inadequacy and worthlessness.
I yell back it, but I am an unworthy opponent.
Slaughtered by darkness, I black out.