The Corpse in My Bedroom: A Gothic Horror Poem

There is a corpse beneath my roof, 
it has lain there, counting the days.
I leave the panes bare to the dying light, 

while the room exhales the dead in a thousand ways.

Its fingers have begun to stiffen,
still steeped in the memory of my skin.
Its mouth remains slightly parted,

green mould flowering within.

I dragged it toward the doorway,

the dead came crawling back to where it lay.
I pulled until my fingers bled,
the darkness held it in its sway.

The mirror alone cradles the dreadful sight,
its silver tongue withholding who.

Each morn, I stand where the dead repose,

its hollow gaze comes piercing through.

Yesterday, I shrouded its face,
tonight, I heard it whisper my name.
I slipped my hand beneath the sheet,
and found my own visage, cold as flame.

Then the chamber bled its secret through,
no other flesh had festered in its gloom.

The corpse had waited, swollen and blue,

for me to remember, I was the rot in the room.