Can I help you hurt? It helps to hurt. Then again, don’t copy me. I’m just pulling skag off trees, digging dreams off roots.
I won’t go away, not yet. I didn’t drop the e; it dropped me. Right into your lymphatic system.
Way, way under your skin.
You couldn’t feel it. It would have helped if you could.
“Paper or plastic?”
Who cares. Either way, we’re going to expire.
“But I care! I care!” cries a voice, plaintive and pure in the mud-cum.
“Poor kid. You’ll die before any of us.”
I knew they were right. After all, how many fresh organs can stand to flourish in the midst of bitch-fumes? We’re miserable, coated with pus-gels.
You have to rub until it burns, baby. It helps to itch and simmer and scream.
It helps to hate and ache and learn.
I rocked the curb of your neck. You should have seen the show. We ripped blood cells from their flesh-pockets and the groupies went insane.
I licked, sucked and fed. Chewed and purged.
You tickled me every time you shaved!
Why couldn’t you feel me?
I ate out your pores. They came and curled and creamed the sheets clean.
You didn’t have what it takes to feel, feel the gnat before it burrowed. By the time you were swollen and sweating from the head, it was too late.
My tummy ached. The spores settled.
Then again, don’t listen to me.
I’m going to get out. And I’m taking you with me.