The words rasp like a pitted file against my mind.
They are whittled, pondered, sundered, and then reformed.
‘Reworded,’ if you will.
What is it that you want to say?
This story is a worm squirming through my veins,
writhing against my consciousness,
twisting into boneless loops
that pulse and sting and tickle and hurt as
I try to sleep, and close my senses to its persistent cry.
But it will not stand to be unwritten.
Do you fall asleep, now?
“The thought of you will wait, and remain until I return.”
Are you sure we will remain,
or sure you will return?
*The Worm* 3D art by Jon Botros
BlackQuill 