The Trouble with Parasites.

Often the remedy is simply more of the sickness. This flesh. Like little elevators through warring dimensions. Time pondering. The growing infection of love.

Couldn't we tell these same stories in the words we already have. Rather than stumbling through the time lines for poor substitutes. Couldn't we just wear. These torn t-shirts. And admit that naked is better. Blind dolls on the edge of the mountain. Their plastic breath in echoes of when. I could say where I was.

It was under my skin. Movement and sacrifice like a wall of broken mirrors. The leeches spoiled by my blood. Losing their grip.

I am nothing without them.