A disturbing poem.

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.