cake
staring at the top of the box listening to my stomach growl. i briefly remember the one week i left my coffin only to get put back in a new one more my-size. sure, it's more comfortable, but i feel the same way i always did. i am itching, i can feel bugs attempt to heave my eyeballs out from behind, i can feel cetepedes under the skin of my hands, slowly pushing through my fingers as if they're telling me to do something about my memories, but i'm not sure exactly what. suddenly, i feel venom enter my brain— theworstpart. i jolt up and hit my head against the exit. i catch a second of the outside in my ears:
'i sold him cake today'
cake? you sold him what? cake? you sold him cake?
the box tells me i'm not a real writer. i haven't held a pen since that one week. i haven't known a pen before it, either. i'm just trying to think in a box where i've long been marked dead. sure, this new one is a bit more spacious, the gap between my stomach and the 'exit' give a little more room for my stomach to rise, but it leaves me feeling the same way i always have. this time i just know i'll never have such a week again, because this one is much more suitable to them anyway. i believe i stopped growing some time ago, but i couldn't say when. i couldn't say how old i am or how old i might've been when the old box finally got too cramped, but i know it felt like forever ago. every blink of my eyes feels like it took 'forever'.
i don't need to wonder how many others breathe inside their coffins. but i am happy in my own opinion it's not just me. what i'm not happy about is knowing there are plenty people who can breathe fresh air every day of their lives, regardless of whether or not it is their desire. i'm not happy i don't understand why a person would sell another cake.
why did you sell them cake? did that person even say 'cake'? i guess i don't have to worry about knowing, my business takes place in here, where god has assigned my fate that i die while my heart beats.