worms are gross

May 2015. Not posted on Fictionaut.

Metal is bending because I am telling it to bend.
And I’m telling you to move, and you won’t fucking move.

When the little worms pretend they have cancer
to try and find a place in my heart, to die
and rot in, I need a heart that is made
of metal that I can move, that worms
can’t squiggle into again.

I ain’t your princess,
don’t call me baby when you
tell me I’m not dying. You
make me wish I was. I don’t want
to share a planet with you, or air
or pain or love. Go away, worm.