The Worm

There is a worm between my skin and bones,

Long and toothy and grey.

Bloodless and hungry.

There is a worm in me and it is eating.

Eating, eating, eating -

everything,

rotten and wholesome,

alive and dead.

There is a leech between the fibers and linings of my body.

Sliding through the secret parts,

Weakening, weakening, weakening,

the hollow places

and drawing them down until they touch sides

and rub themselves raw.

Where muscle meets viscera and clings in vital lumps,

and there are no whispering thoughts left,

the worm turns circles,

eating, chewing, leeching -

until it grips its own tail and turns inside out.