The Host

The worm's been in my stomach for three days now. I can feel it humming. It's whispering, too. Like it has some wild ideas to share. I want it to go, I want to be alone. Food doesn't satisfy my gaping hunger, the worm eats it all. I've thought in jest of naming it, but always feel unsettled and vulnerable. It's happening in the living room. The living dead. On the telephones. They jump into each others' minds, just like the worm jumped down my throat. I could kill myself, but then it'd just feed off my cold dead body. I was born in 1981 with two crescent shaped scars on my wrists. They told my parents I was a cold-hearted boy, a snow-flaked wisp. Never saw, never thought. The future was a place for those who dwelt in the past. No one else has a worm. This is my own treachery, my own despoiled body. Smoking cigarettes, drinking alcohol, eating fast food, breaking fingers, on my knees, begging for change, pulling the handle, and cocking the pistol.