THE LIVING

I marvel at how well preserved my corpse is. I can feel it decaying from the inside, but when I look in the mirror my body hasn't changed, so I go on.

It's painful being a walking corpse. There are sores where my heart used to be and they open at the slightest criticism. The foul smelling pus that pours out disgusts the Living. I clean the wound, flush the dead flesh down the toilet and carry on. I try to pretend nothing has happened but the Living remember.

The Living are getting on with things - bargains on eBay, redecoration, paint, carpets and DIY. They talk about weddings they went to and restaurants, of holiday destinations and television. They see my lack of interest as rude, but I'm preoccupied with trying to hide the stink of corruption permeating from under my baggy clothes. How I envy the living, their thick skins and ability to concentrate on the most trifling of matters. I can't remember what that was like. It was such a long time ago

You occasionally look for signs of life and it frustrates you when you can't even detect a heartbeat. You demand unfairly that I do something about it, you say the smell is getting to you and nobody enjoys fucking a corpse. I don't blame you my darling. I can remember love and I can go through the motions, but it isn't enough. You have learned the truth about the empty vessel that once looked as though it housed life and you can't get away fast enough.