Under My Skin

She’s a leech under my veins. She suffocates me from the inside, draining me of sustenance. She pulls on my veins like strings on a harmonica. She nibbles her way through my flesh and through my heart, bleeding and hardly beating. She gorges herself with my insides until there is nothing but a hollowed corpse, collapsing into itself.

She’s vermin underneath me. She spins and she spurns, her filth resonating inside me. She’s a disease I cannot control. She severs my immunity and hinders my isolation. She waits for me until I bleed for her. I am her contamination. She spreads my disease—our disease—into the homes of everyone.

Deception is her pleasure, her profession. Until someone puts a stop to her madness, it spreads. The paranoia, the absolution and the lies span for miles. Avoidant to the touch, she severs a lonely man’s touch. Her lips are made of sugar and her veins made of poison. She spreads inside you and forces death upon you.

Release is something of a haven, but it never comes. It’s a tyrannical cycle of agony and pleasure. It never ends and it’s all consuming. It’s everything and nothing. Madness and sanity. You won’t know when it begins, and forever an active regime.