a path to dead

She had little idea that i had died. 

I kept that almost as if it were a recluse, to heart. Who knew that i'd have trussed her hair tie around my neck and hung myself to the dim-lit, short legged chair into the corner of the debris of my room.
I'd seen her leave just a few minutes ago - but obviously, i had died. i could see the blood curdling up my chest and into the narrowed, thick visage of my gurgling esophagus.
she'd sunken her eyes; her eyes were baggy, and sunken. her odor had left a stench in my nose that had often trickled my hair along the neath. 

it couldn't have been past noon. i plowed myself up from my rotting bed, howled a bit; i groaned. bellowing.

the sight of the girth of my abdomen as i stood in front of our shattered mirror that i had to put together in pieces as you told me to work them up from the floor in my white underwear. 

my thongs. 

and i might've been butt-cold. i was no beneath the fact that had leash that pound me; and before i noticed it, i was wearing her bra. and then her deep, red, matte lipstick. 

but what was it all about, really? to colonize my room just like that, as if it'd been plundered from the thousands of the forthcomings' it had seen of herself? what had really belonged to her, at all?


she left her straws on the bed.