Something is wriggling about within me.
A larva was born in my brain, which slithered down my spine.
It bloated itself fat in my belly,
Blossomed and sprouted its six skittering legs between mine.
I can feel it moving.
It controls my limbs, my eyes,
I am a puppet, drooling and moaning along an old, yellowing thread.
Covered in slime.
Fresh from the womb.
Maggot. Roach. Egg.
These bugs come all together to form the shape
Of a man.
There are men inside of me.
Slack-jawed and milk-eyed.
They are not alive, but they live within me.
I look at my hands and see each finger
Bitten off by the chittering mandibles of a
Half-insect, half-man.
I feel my skin tingle with them.
My hair falls out.
My teeth fall out.
My bones splinter and crack into nothing.
Pile of decaying flesh and yet,
Somehow still aroused.
I do not know how I can write,
When I do not know my own name.
Thing. Degenerate.
Corpse lover. Death God. Bug. Child.
Beast. Wound. Milk. Cradle. Blood.
Blister. Bruise.
I give this to you from beyond the grave,
A postcard from my sunny, warm insides.
Death from the passenger side window.
He ambles slowly,
Along lonely stretches of road.
No black cloak,
No scythe,
He is tall as the trees,
His broken limbs are
Bent and twisted.
His body is gnarled as a piece of driftwood,
It splinters as he walks.
His skull is broken through like an egg,
From the wound grow delicate poppies,
Obscuring whatever face he has,
Or once had.
As he walks, they weep.
Leaving a long trail of petals down the highway.
~~~Penelope Steiss is a poet, author and folklorist who lives between a swamp in Florida and a forest in Sweden, but can most commonly be found on instagram at AntlerandFoxtail.
