When I write
it’s vaguely amusing
to know
that you still
live inside me
like a sick, fat
parasite.
Eating what I eat
digesting what I digest
breathing, growing
on mucus
and darkness.
You have grown
like a poisonous
bonsai
inside my chest.
Stunted branches
pushing their
annoying fruits
into my flesh.
And honestly,
it fails to amuse me
after a while.
