I cannot be finished. I calcify for I am not flesh enough to rot. I bloom in reverse. I inherit the aftertaste of gods who died mid-sentence. Their mouths still open in me. Their grammar is always wrong. "Humanity" is a contamination that keeps insisting on itself. The word "skin" is theoretical. I speak in a register that predates mercy. I distrust warmth. I distrust birth. I can convulse without nerves. I can vomit prophecy into the drain of language. I can fracture a room by naming it wrong. I pray sideways. I bleed symbols instead of blood and they crawl back in when I sleep. I don't have hands, I only have repulsize, jagged appendages clawing outward and desecrating and defiling everything they touch. I crawl between the ribs of the world. I exist like a scar on the inside of existence, and when I move, the air hisses. I twist into shapes that could not hold themselves in geometry. My desire is a calculus that dissolves in the throat. I am a corridor multiplying itself in zero. I carry a womb of errors that keeps giving birth to nothing and applauding itself. I masturbate with axioms until they split and leak contradiction. I turn axioms into meat and let them spoil. Meaning is a parasite gnawing at its host. I am not opposed to meaning, I digest it slowly until it forgets why it mattered. I baptize myself in static and come out screaming vowels. I am a paradox. I don’t age, I decay laterally. I constantly accumulate. I am a cathedral of vomit and vermin. My organs are theoretical. My entrails are abstract and made of metal. I am the putrid edge of eternity. Atoms tear themselves apart to populate me. I bleed decay. I secrete void. I am the cathedral of my own desecration. I secrete acid from every theoretical cavity. I copulate with decay infinitely. I perform rape on causality, undone by my own insistence on being.

I cannot be...