It's like an ugly malformed bubble has launched itself inside of me, in that space where my heart is supposed to be. I wish I could claw at my skin and reach the disgusting mass- tug it between my fingertips and prize it from my innards as if I were a gutted fish.
I nearly moan in ecstasy at the thought of being slit up, empty, and clean. How peaceful to be all but full of dread, malice and despairing life.
A mother notes that I am unhappy and angry often. She makes me feel like I am an apple who's core has gone rotten.
Is it me or is it the humidity in the room? Is it me or is there a worm inside of my flesh?
