FRACTURE

I feel like I’m dying.

Every time I look into the mirror, that feeling grows stronger—but my muscles don’t. I can see them clearly. Their shape is changing. They’re growing, becoming a beast carved beneath my skin.

But no matter how godly those fibers become, no matter how tightly they protect your skeleton, no matter how much strength they give you—you’ll always surrender to your soul in the end.

Muscles mean nothing when the heart is weak.

If fear grips you with every breath you take, if it follows you into every moment of existence, then no amount of strength can save you from dying—from the death I’m experiencing now.

I can’t stand in front of the mirror anymore. I can’t stand in front of myself.

My soul begins to rot while my muscles slowly decay. My legs grow heavier, pulling me downward. My eyes refuse to open, as if even the light has become too much to bear.

I’m dying, I’m… dying.

I’m not asking anyone to save me. I only want you to know that I’m… dying… dying right in front of myself.