Death moths (please let me go)

The fleas under your skin are screaming to escape
The maggots in your brain are begging for food
The mites on your chest are anxious for water
The worms swallowing your heart are tired of racing
The illness of your brain is patiently waiting
for it's time
it waits for you to die.
All the while you decide to poison yourself
You drink your vulgar beer
You smoke your vile cigarettes
You slice your wrists with rusted blades
But what are the fleas supposed to do?
Or the maggots?
The mites?
And the worms?
What am I supposed to do?
I'll cling to the ghastly version of the eidiolic man
That you once were
That smiled at everyone
While your eyes shone bright
You laughed at Death
Until he took you into his hallowed arms
Thank you, Death
For freeing me
From the man I used to know