The written word:
A virus, thrilling
Bores deep into the skin
Creates its cavernous cavity
Gnawing, eating, absorbing flesh
To feed and germinate
Spreading from limb to mind
A possession unlike any other
Sometimes resulting in spewage,
Uncontrollable waste –
Yet other times patterning
The ethereal rash which
Grasps and ropes observers in.
I was infected at birth
And I spored in my youth,
Pieces of myself falling here
And there, to the dismay
Of classmates and teachers alike.
They’d try and reattach the pieces,
Wearing gloves to stave off infection.
They didn’t deserve this plague anyway.
It was mine, wholly and fully and beautifully.
So what if they didn’t understand?
I managed to get under their skin anyway.
Still do, I think.