I think I’ve finally hit the expiration date. Not in a dramatic, tragic way. just in the way that a thing does when it’s no longer useful. Like a piece of meat left too long on the counter, forgotten until the smell makes it impossible to ignore.
There’s something almost poetic about it. You start as something fresh, something with potential, something people reach for. Then time does its thing. The novelty wears off. You get passed over for shinier, newer options. Until one day, you’re just there. Out of place. Unwanted.
I’m not even bleeding anymore. That would imply something still runs through me, something alive. No, all of that is long gone. What’s left is the weight of it, the ache in my bones, the heaviness in my limbs. Moving feels pointless. Feeling feels impossible. If you let something rot long enough, it stops fighting back.
People don’t throw things away with cruelty. They do it with indifference. That’s the worst part. No grand betrayal, no final scene. just the quiet realization that you’ve been left behind, like an object that no longer serves a purpose. Like an old shirt, a broken chair, a half-eaten meal someone meant to finish but didn’t.
Maybe I was useful once. Maybe I mattered. But now? I’m just here, taking up space, waiting to be cleared out.
And the world moves on. Because it always does.