Growing inside.
Consumed, Inhaled, Endured, Ingested.
The amanita kisses the innards and all is fungal.
Toxic, Uncomfortable, Comforting, Familiar.
When there's nothing left to forage, And the poor soul was hungry, It would eat.
Cleaned, Prepared, Tasted.
The hunger hurts but the struggle hurts more.
Did it eat from hunger? Or was it Resignation?
Spores in its lungs, In its skin, Spores on its face grow in dense clusters that it rips and tears and eats and eats again, Praying for death.
But it is already dead and rotting, And the pain is growing and all is growing, All is fungal.
God, It's growing inside it, The hate, The rage, The pain, The want, The need for death, And all is fungal.
Can't you see the spores? You spread them and gifted to it your disease, Your filth and sick, You spread to it with lies and words drenched and ill with deceit.
A sick monster you are with the sick monster you made, And its insides are a scary place where all is fungal, All is growing and can never be stunted unless culled.
And you dare pity this creature? You dare strike an empty apology for which you barely had the guts to whisper let alone speak aloud? This monster you reject and create, This creature with nothing, The very nothing you gave in return for devotion.
It doesn't want your pity now.
All is fungal.
It wants your toxicity.
All is fungal.
It wants you to finish this slow death you've granted.
All is fungal.
It is begging to be fed.
All is fungal.
