Parasiticus

 

the seeds of discontent have been sown. the compost heap that is my heart has nutured them into something more, and blooming black thistles send a bouquet of decomposition accross the landscape of my soul.

it never ceases to amaze me that despite the drought on tangible longing, the choking vines of want always seem to find nourishment here. with no instinct to guide them, how is it they always seem to find their migratory route home?

in this land of no seasons, how is it they feel the urge to spring forth at the same time every year? blind to reason and rationality, how is it they seem to see me as a beacon, an ever welcoming greenhouse of deep seated self doubt and loathing?

as i try fruitlessly to pull these weeds from my heart, i can feel their roots working into the malleable bits of flesh that are still pink with energy and life. i can feel the flesh cringing from their touch, its putrid resignation as it turns to rot, unable to squirm free.

it makes my limbs twitch and my skin crawl. i can feel the flames in the back of my eyes burning with undirected hatred. i feel the fires turning in on themselves and prickling accross my scalp as the very stuff of memory turns to cinder and ash in the path of my blinding rage.

but with nowhere to go, the hatred and rage is left to pace worn paths inside myself, i can feel it. the knifelike stab accross my chest, the viselike bind accross my temples. i can feel it coelescing into disgusting black festering piles of decay. eating away at everything still vital and living inside me.

the seeds of discontent have been planted. they have been nurtured. they have sprung forth.

and now the poisonous cancer is tearing away at my soul, and living flesh alike.

and i don't know who i am anymore.

Author's Note

rife with punctuation and grammatical errors, but such is the price for ommiting editing from the brain-to-paper process.