Souvenir Sloth — you kept pieces of us like charms.

Not to remember—but to possess.

Souvenir Sloth drips like honey gone sour. Slow. Heavy. Rotting under its own sweetness. This isn’t hunger for food or flesh—it’s hunger for what once made you feel alive. You gorged on memories. Fed on half-smiles and glances never meant for you. Replayed moments that were never yours to begin with, until they tasted like truth.

Dante wades through a putrid storm.

The gluttons wallow in the mud, the filth of overindulgence—blind to anything but the next mouthful.

They are stripped of dignity, of distinction.

Only need remains.

A looping craving that replaces identity with appetite.

You called your longing romantic.

But it was laziness—emotional sloth.

You wanted the warmth without the work, the poetry without the pain.

You wrapped us in gauze, kept us in jars,

and told yourself it was love.

But you didn’t cherish us.

You collected us.

Souvenir Sloth is a shrine built from expired dreams.

And you’re still kneeling in front of it, mouth open, eyes closed, begging for something that no longer lives.