forestcore

((tw: death, insects, kind of slight body horror))

there's bugs crawling on my skin
i feel it each time they move
i can't seem to tell
if they're hurting me or not
let me lay beneath the dirt to rot

away from the impossible standards
i am held to by no one but myself
let me be a failure
failures don't have to try
instead i could just die

i could let the bugs consume me
instead of clawing at my skin
desperately trying to peel them off
it itches, it burns
maybe deep down i know the truth

my skin is made of bugs
and my mind of secret failures
let me rot, let me rot, let me rot