Trying to cut it, the hand trembled at the critical moment and lost strength, and the blade lightly touched the skin and pressed hard.
Blood beads emerge from the skin and grow slowly.
Far from enough.
Stand up, ears beeping, eyes dizzy. I stood up, with an itchy and sticky sweat.
I'm slowly rotting.
Want to escape.
The ring gleamed and I looked where my name should be. But the name is dead, only vague.
Little by little I died, little by little I killed myself.
I grinned in front of the mirror and slowly propped open my skull, fragments of memory gushing out, accompanied by a mist of water.
I pick up shattered memories, I pick up broken hearts.
The memory is sharp, but the dirty hands are not afraid to bleed.
Hold it firmly and the memory melts in an instant. I was paralyzed in the water, the foul-smelling liquid flowing from the rotten parts, the itching and sharp pain sticky. I took off my clothes, the brown stains on my clothes were full of black spots, my vision was blurred, and countless black eyes stared at my body, watching him decay—every moment.
I looked at my past collection of poems and opened it.
Words squirm slowly and flock to the scene. They were bugs, and they laughed and burrowed into my fingers. I pulled out my finger and discarded it, and fled in an instant. I watched from a distance as they killed the pages and devoured them.
My favorite text has become a bug.
The foul-smelling liquid flowed to his feet, and a pain came from his mind.
This liquid is the pus of the broken soul.
My emotions withered, my logic decayed, my memories and fantasies shattered.
I want to reminisce, I want to lament, but the synapses needed to recall and lament are dead.
"Memories don't die." Self in the mirror said.
I tried to vomit, swallowed stomach acid and fell to the ground, and I saw insects and ants covering the earth, devouring the house.
That's not an ant, that's my writing.
"Memories don't die." They are displayed.
The scent of flowers I smell when I was alone on the street was the scent of the old campus.
A group of girls walked by, they had different faces, but they all had the backs of their former classmates.
On the blurry photo, the smile is crystal clear.
I think of the past, and my past self is full of restless lust. The past self abandons time, and I peep.
Watching the beautiful world around me is the favorite pastime of the soul of the old days, and it is also my old spring dreams.
She is my spirit, my flesh, my mouthpiece. She was in my esophagus, trembling with each spit I swallowed. Even if the flesh has decayed, even if the blood vessels are filled with pus and maggots. I could still smell her scent, and her lingering tears kept my mind racing through thousands of years.
But the world is dead.
Is she already rotten? Or did the stench in my body spread throughout the world?
I didn't dare to think about it, I just stared, stared at the bricks and tiles of this burrow, stared at every drop of water mist in the mirror - that was the pebbles of the past, that was the dew of the past.
"I've always been there." Self in the mirror said.
Love and hatred fill my spirit, my flesh, my mouthpiece.
I recognized him as my past self.
Pick up the knife and pounce on him.
I wrestled with my former self, pus and blood and sweat pooling into a deep pool, I pinched my neck, the blade brought out the flesh foam.
Meet in pools of blood, embrace each other, commit adultery.
I saw the déjà vu self collapse and turn into a mist of water.
Finally, I killed myself—for the last time.