Sooner or later everything rots. Everything around you will eventually return to the primordial filth that it came from, and you will have nothing left to eat but your own heart. This heart will be bitter and writhing when you break open your sternum and wrap your fingers around its still-beating form to rip it away from the cavity where it sits to keep you alive. You’ll feel its pulse on your tongue, trying desperately to get it to stop by crushing it with your molars. The beating only reminds you of when you could still breathe. I promise, though, you will grow to love the taste. You will learn to sustain yourself on that vile thing that kept such an unworthy creature walking. The wretch that coats its outside will begin to hail itself as the sole arbiter of your life. It will whisper in your ear to eat yourself away bit by bit until the only thing that is left are the necessary structures to pull more meat off of your bones. Eventually, you will have taken so much that you cannot take any more. No blood left to drink, no victual left to eat. You will look at yourself in the mirror and you will love what you see: a withered, bone-tattered form barely able to move throughout space. It will be so sweet to see the fruits of who you’ve become. But, after that, you will be buried in vestments you’d never worn and adornments you’d never choose. You will be carried through a congregation of people you don’t care for, by people who have thrown you off of cliffs before. You’ll be buried under a stone that does not bear your name and beg to be able to spit back out the dirt that they so carelessly threw over your body. You will plead to come alive. You will, no doubt. Though I cannot tell you the journey it will take to pull your atrophied body out from the grave. You will come out with dirt underneath your fingernails that you will rub onto your bruised eyes when you see the ground break. You will come out scarred and battered, with little to no hope of taking a single step forward after exhausting your full efforts to come to the surface. The bittersweet respite once you finally break your hands through the barrier to the other side of the grave will be so fleeting you will barely feel it. You will look around you and realize that you resurrected yourself only to be brought back into the same place that buried you to begin with.
You will then have to leave. You took so much out of yourself to get this far, you will have no clue how to move forward. You will pray to the very thing that got you here in the first place that nobody sees you slipping through the trees as you try to run. Your knees will break on the very first step you take, and you will crawl until you are well enough to get back on your feet. The feeling of the ground hitting your feet will shatter your remaining bones. Your scars will open again and you’ll suck the sludge that comes out so you can swear that you taste sugar. You’ll ride
whatever high you can get from the glucose you’re finally producing to take you to the border of whatever place you’re escaping. Where are you from, and how did they kill you? They held you down and gouged out your eyes when your innocent impropriety led you to a room where you saw what they were afraid of showing. They broke your arms when you raised them to defend yourself. They ruptured your eardrums when you professed that what the herald sang was improper. That is where you will feel the bacterium you create first regrowing. Your eyes are returning to their original shade, your white blood cells are restructuring stronger than before, you can hear music again for the first time. You will learn that autolatry is a virtue and one that you cannot afford to pass on. No communion will ever compare to sweet doses of self-worship. I have seen the edges of the unknown, but I’ve never seen a god do what you have. I have never seen a god resurrect themselves without vanishing again. I have never seen another holy being look the world in the eye and refuse death as wholeheartedly as you have. I hope nothing for you beyond that you understand the undertaking that you have accomplished, for I have never seen a god make themselves. I have never seen a god take a lowly form and exalt it to factual, ontological divinity capable of a certain omnipotence so as only to bring about their self-reported omnibenevolence. I have never seen a god be worthy of worship without misery, and my love, how you’ve so mastered misery.
Mihi gloria in excelsis.
