I decay,
Infested with scavenger insects,
Investigated by egg laden flies,
Circled by birds of carrion.
I swipe at the flies,
Brush away insects,
And startle birds.

My rotting is internal,
But they can all smell it,
Their hunger driving them toward any potential for satisfaction.
The scent of death infects their senses with promises of feasting.

I struggle to hold myself together,
Hastily putting fallen pieces of me back where they belong,
Stitching them in if they won't stay.
But it's a losing battle;
I'm falling apart faster than I can keep myself together.

Soon they will win.
The promises will be fulfilled.
They will feast.
On me.
Yet worse, I will know.