Rotting Alive

Do I have a purpose here, or just a carcass dressed in skin? My veins run cold with rotting blood, a war inside I’ll never win. Existing feels like slaughtered time, my lungs choke on a rusted breath. I crave the knife of nothingness, the mercy in a violent death. I am a burden, heavy, vile, a wound that festers, split and torn. A dead soul dragging shattered bones, condemned to bleed where I was born. Will this torment ever loosen, or will it chain me till I rot? I am the scream that no one hears, the corpse that lives, though it should not.