Letters to the sick

My feet haven’t been dry since we landed with all the rain in the trenches. Now we’re just waiting for our feet to rot off.
I’m rotting from the outside in and devouring what’s left from the inside out. Nothing is like this starvation, I have a rat in the pit of my stomach, burrowing down, digging deeper.

Food is so real. I’m at the limit of myself, like I’d never known, I‘ve become an acid that burns me inside out. It kills me. I-am-killing-my-self. Dark red holes have been opening up all over my body. My tongue drowns with thirst, the blisters freeze at night then crack during the day. Sunburn licks at every exposed bit of skin and now it’s rot from the wet – This body isn’t my home.
The doctor said that if the swelling doesn’t stop, it might fall off, so I’ll have to pop it. I’m a conscript. I’m a convict. Is this warring against death?

I popped a welt today and used the puss as a lip balm. The lipstick of the sick you used to call it.

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