I think the world ended while I was brushing my teeth and nobody bothered to tell me. Now I sit with silence and lick my teeth that taste like mint and blood and soap and the hollow memory of every mouth I ever kissed and wait for God to find me, because apparently they forgot about me. I guess I was too useless for anyone to notice I was there at all. A soul too empty to bother taking. A body too weak to work in hell. A mind too distracted to obey.
I spit into the sink. The water drags its fingers slow, like molasses that doesn’t even know it’s water, like it’s alive and mocking me, dragging my spit and my teeth shavings and whatever scraped off my tongue down the drain to somewhere worse. I watch it curl and twist and imagine it remembering me better than anyone ever did. I watch the faucet drip and think each drop is a life I almost had, tumbling, folding, exploding into nothing before it touched anything real. The mirror in the corner hums like a dying radio, like it remembers me better than I remember myself, like it wants something from me I can’t give. Shadows slither across the walls, twitching, gossiping, giggling like the walls are watching. I reach toward the reflection and my hand sinks into it, sticky with air that tastes like burned paper, spoiled milk, old cigarette smoke, and decaying advertisements screaming that nothing matters.
I get out of the bathroom as the door squeaks and the sound is too loud, too alive, too aware, so I move slow, crawling, dragging myself, so the God won’t hear me, so the universe won’t notice that it forgot to take me.
I go outside. The world is mine now. I run. No one sees me. No one judges me. No one screams ‘keep running.’
I run ugly.
I run too fast, too fucking fast, faster than the asphalt, faster than the dirt, faster than the teeth in my head that feel like they’re screaming. My stomach churns and my lungs are full of wind that tastes like ash and gasoline and plastic.
Then I fly.
I see the pyramids folding into themselves like paper models, then the White House the devil once lived in, shaking, leaking paint, breathing smoke.
Flying isn’t freedom. Flying is forgetting your body exists, shedding skin and hair and bones in the wind, leaving only thought and nausea. The higher I go, the lighter my thoughts get, disintegrating into glittering black dust, leaves of meaning fluttering into an abyss. The world below sharpens into landmarks that are lies, souvenirs, proofs that people once pretended they were alive. I don’t slow down. I don’t choose. I let momentum decide what deserves me, and everything deserves nothing.
Maybe God didn’t forget me. Maybe forgetting is the system. Maybe divinity isn’t watching, judging, or saving, just keeping the gears moving and calling it order. If that’s true, then all our prayers were just noise we made to feel supervised.
I finally understand it isn’t death that scares people. It’s being insignificant without permission. We want our endings to be important, framed, justified. We want the universe to look at us when we disappear. But most things don’t get witnessed. They just stop.
That is literally how I died.
I closed my eyes mid-air, and the air was thick and alive, buzzing like teeth gnashing and air tearing, convinced this counted as living. Then iron cut through the sky, that ugly fucking tower in the middle of France people once thought was love, like it had been waiting for me to arrive just so it could ruin me.
Impact.
Gravity remembered me, gnawed at me, chewed me into existence.
I hit cold stone. Cold, wet, sticky marble that smelled of piss, metal, and history pretending to care. The sound traveled through Paris and meant nothing to anyone. No witnesses. No correction. No God rushing to fix the oversight.
Things don’t end the way we imagine. They just rot. They just stop being held.
Love, gülsena.
Missed your destructive instincts. Well cooked.