dreaded anticipation

the compost heap whispers to me,
hot breath.
stink.

it beckons me,
tugging on my low belly,
its churn wears a welcoming grin and
enticing, knowing eyes.

my decision to rot was made
long ago;
i cannot suddenly choose to be pristine
again.

Ms. White Marble Countertops.
Ms. Perfectly Sanitized Relationship.
Ms. Absolutely Fucking Dying Inside.

how did i ever survive?

the heat of decay,
hermetically sealed
inside my torso…

was a renewable resource for me,
i think.
air and methane rose through my throat,

powering the windmills that held my cheeks up,
politely baring my perfectly straightened teeth.
my eyes were glass marbles.

what will they become in the heap?
can the microbes digest my hardened sand?
does it hurt?