mitochondria.

The truth.

All I can write is poetry. A collection of incomplete thoughts. I can't finish what I want to say. I don't know what I want to say, only that there is something in the pit of my stomach digging through my intestines and looking for a way out. Do not misunderstand, it is festering inside of me like a parasite and this is its eviction. I do not write due to desire so much as necessity, so much as escape. Every word that stems from me is a part of my declaration of refusal to let this enigma reside within me, making its livelihood through my silence and fear. It is the worst thing in the world, not belonging to yourself. I do not know how many minutes more I can allow its residency to consume my being, only that I will implode if given an eternity to continue battling my own gut.