There is something inside me. I can feel it. Feel them. I can feel their claws scratching my bones, carving them, reshaping them for their needs. I can feel them digging through flesh, through muscle, into my organs. They are trying to make a home. They are filling my stomach, my lungs, my mind. They don't want to leave.
But I don’t think they’re parasites. They aren’t just using me as a home; they’re a part of me now. They keep me company, they’re comforting, they need me, and they're good for me. I'm healthy, I’m active, I’m strong. I’m their home, their ecosystem. They need me, they do. I can’t kill them, anyway. I haven’t tried, but it wouldn’t work; they’re too much a part of me. It’s all right, though. Really, I don’t mind. It’s nice to have a purpose, to be something other than myself.
* * * * *
I can’t sleep. They keep me up, their constant squirming, and murmuring, and squeaking, and being. It’s so much. But I can’t tell them to quiet down. It’s not their fault that they don’t sleep; they need to build their homes. And it’s not their fault you can hear things better when they're happening in your own body.
But really, I should sleep. I need to stay healthy; they need me to be healthy. Where would they go without me? They couldn’t survive out in the real world; they need me to protect them. That's what they say. Well, not say. Maybe communicate? Imply? I’m not sure how I know, but I know they need me. They need me. They wouldn’t lie.
And I need them. They know what to do. What I should eat, when I should wake up, where I need to go. It’s just so much easier with them; they’ve really helped me.
* * * * *
I think there’s more of them now. I can feel them in every part of me, my hands, my feet, my head. I can see them, too. See them writhing beneath my skin. They all come to the surface when they’re bothered. When I roll over in my sleep, when I bump into something, when I think too much. They push against the walls of me, trying to get away. They can’t be around all that noise. I have to accommodate.
They make me look bloated now. Like a dead body. I feel weaker. I can barely walk, barely move. All I do is eat and sleep. I can’t bother them with anything else, so I eat. I eat so much. But they need more, now that there’s more of them. That’s what they told me. I have to be there for them. I’m their world; I need to adapt to them. They need me to. They need me.
I’m sure I’ll be fine. They wouldn’t hurt me. They wouldn’t lie. Not after everything I’ve done for them. They couldn’t, right?
But I don’t think they’re parasites. They aren’t just using me as a home; they’re a part of me now. They keep me company, they’re comforting, they need me, and they're good for me. I'm healthy, I’m active, I’m strong. I’m their home, their ecosystem. They need me, they do. I can’t kill them, anyway. I haven’t tried, but it wouldn’t work; they’re too much a part of me. It’s all right, though. Really, I don’t mind. It’s nice to have a purpose, to be something other than myself.
* * * * *
I can’t sleep. They keep me up, their constant squirming, and murmuring, and squeaking, and being. It’s so much. But I can’t tell them to quiet down. It’s not their fault that they don’t sleep; they need to build their homes. And it’s not their fault you can hear things better when they're happening in your own body.
But really, I should sleep. I need to stay healthy; they need me to be healthy. Where would they go without me? They couldn’t survive out in the real world; they need me to protect them. That's what they say. Well, not say. Maybe communicate? Imply? I’m not sure how I know, but I know they need me. They need me. They wouldn’t lie.
And I need them. They know what to do. What I should eat, when I should wake up, where I need to go. It’s just so much easier with them; they’ve really helped me.
* * * * *
I think there’s more of them now. I can feel them in every part of me, my hands, my feet, my head. I can see them, too. See them writhing beneath my skin. They all come to the surface when they’re bothered. When I roll over in my sleep, when I bump into something, when I think too much. They push against the walls of me, trying to get away. They can’t be around all that noise. I have to accommodate.
They make me look bloated now. Like a dead body. I feel weaker. I can barely walk, barely move. All I do is eat and sleep. I can’t bother them with anything else, so I eat. I eat so much. But they need more, now that there’s more of them. That’s what they told me. I have to be there for them. I’m their world; I need to adapt to them. They need me to. They need me.
I’m sure I’ll be fine. They wouldn’t hurt me. They wouldn’t lie. Not after everything I’ve done for them. They couldn’t, right?