10/3/23

Plunging my clawed fingers into my breast I find a scorpion crawling and stinging where it shouldn’t. Tucked between aorta, shuffling around the parts that keep me going. Scuttling down vascular pathways, thousands of pale pupa offspring tickle my heart with their tarsus. Every agony starts with a pinprick pinch. And then fire and roiling bile and retching. Lungs exuding particulate: ground up arachnid dust spraying my friends and my family. Stingers poke through each of the pores on the faces of my loved ones. Green acid rends their skin and their eyes pour out, gelatinous. I wish I had clutched less tightly.