It reminds me of patchouli, this stink of dirt against my nose and mouth. It’s a wet, crawling smell that has laid a clutch of eggs on my tongue and left me birthing the taste of rot from between my lips. Wrapped in a shroud, I lay still and fragile, feeling like birds’ wings. It’s cool and damp and dark here, and I am covered, surrounded, suffocated and drowning in the earth, in a hard casing of silk and wood.

I am in this cocoon, shrivelled and broken, but soon, I will find my way out. I will slit the bindings and push up out of the earth like a green thing seeking the sun.

I will uncurl again, and breathe something other than sour soil. Someday.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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