I ate a shooting star hoping to become your once-in-a-lifetime wish, but all I did was burn from the inside out.

The Quake.

It started with my head. 

Reminiscing our past caused my skull to crack and chip until brain tissue leaked from gaping holes. As gray matter seeped, I began to forget if you smelled of musk or linen. As white matter oozed, I began to lose memories I once treasured, like how you made me mint tea in the park or did laundry in the grocery store. 

You.

Yuo.

Uoy.

The Cough.

I wanted to talk to you. When I tried, I would choke. All the things I wanted to say built up in my throat until I passed out.

I woke up coughing up confessions until all that was left was bloody teeth.

The Inflammation.

My eyes grew inflamed staring at pictures of us. Your arms wrapped around my waist in our Christmas photos broke at least seven blood vessels in my watering eyes. The polaroids I kept hidden almost made me blind. 

The Rash.

A rash broke out everywhere your hands have touched me. From my neck down to my wrists were red. The trace of my waist and shoulders displayed splotches in the shape of fingertips. I scratched my arms until they bled trying to rid the feeling of you. I could not stop until nurses noticed and put me in restraints. 

The Blisters.

When you came to visit me at the hospital, the blistering began. You reached to hold my hand and it became a surface of raised bumps.

My skin forgot who you are.

The Drool.

I tried to answer your questions or thank you for visiting me in the hospital, but all I could do was drool with a swollen mouth.

You looked away.

Was it because you made me this way?

The Crust.

I tried to blink at you in a code you could understand, but my eyes began to crust until I could see only the colors of your shirt, skin, hair. As my eyes glued shut, the face I used to stare at for hours became a distorted blur.

I would have given anything to see you once more.

The Breath.

You always pointed out that I held my breath around you. This time, I could not help it. 

No one tells you that when you consume a shooting star, it survives off of your oxygen supply.

The Shedding.

Perhaps the worst part was how my skin shed off onto you. 

I flaked at your touch until my bones were exposed. I felt you wipe me off your fingertips, disgusted. 

I wanted to scream with a mouth I could no longer open.

The Death.

You never got to hear about how my organs simmered inside of me like a slow-cooked stew. 

Doctors studied my body in ways you never cared to do. 

As I was dying, I heard a doctor ask another if I had tried saying your name.

I did.

Featured Art: Unknown