There’s a parasite eating away at my skin. I haven’t given it a name yet.
Perhaps it shouldn’t be something too presumptuous. Sharing my own might do, for now.
I wouldn’t want it to be lonely in this poor destiny, mangled in my entrails. And if it only had it been by tragedy, and not a choice of one’s own. How horrid it must be, to be partaking away in all these parts of me. But I suppose it couldn’t have known it then, when it slid away through my skin, between my bones and under my fingernails.
Could be only a matter of seconds, before it also learns to be disgusted by me, as it is often one of those gullible cases to see something stood as towering as a Titan and beg to be a pebble beneath its foot.
It eats what I eat and that can’t be too reliable. I’ve been guilty of building a gluttonous monster once, can I be blamed for doing it twice?
Perhaps if I keep on feeding it, abandoning me will no longer be an option.
I used to be frightened by hate, but now devotion worries me more.