By Ben Vest
Tickle touches trickling ticks, Moving lighter than air, Crawling along, goosebump flesh pricks, Paranoid, I know it’s there, Striding quick, Eyes opened to this nightmare. Looking for opened orifices, Picking scabbed skin tones, Squeezing out the pus, Burrowing into bones, An act so torturous, Exhaling groans, Excreting venomous, With silent moans. Within my body, egg sacks laid, Making me the mother, A human trophy, with veins to braid, A feeling like no other, Birth, exits, the swarm will raid, Skins sick, even rotter, Becoming more afraid.
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