The Pest

unable to sleep, not because of pain drilled in deep or thoughts unsettled. eyes staying open not caused by artistic devotion.

the words just float, not flow, just chaos that's been left behind of the chosen unspoken.

the sliver of despair embedding itself to interject, question or attack any sort of self preservation.

it will always be there.

inserting itself, always ensuring that it's too deep to pluck out. able to blind or gouge out eyes using the tools on its belt

still it remains.

the thing will fucking suckle on your doubt, steer you in a dead end direction.

that fucking thing will soon manifest as your own little pest.

there it lives.

its found its home and is cozy where it sleeps, as you've gifted it some of yours. now well rested it starts to roam.

It introduces itself to those around as a well intended friend.

eviction is not an option.

your pest has now burrowed into your core. its permanent.

when eyes grow weary and rest is near. that's when that thing is at it's best. half settled and nestled is when the pest creeps out

It makes its way out. at first it just breathes. making its presence known. at its pace, intrusively slow. from its mouth a drop of drool on your shoulder.

as usual, the thing has a flare for dramatics. standing near breathing with the intent of creating excruciating suspense.

using volume loud enough for only you. the closest it can possibly be, the hair stands on your neck, its starts to speak.

only one word in your ear.

a haunting whisper.

fear.