icarus

I can't stand being inside, or rather, being one with a skin with millions of wriggling, microscopic leeches that cling onto this itchy coat. I prick and scratch, wanting to dig under the layers of red and yellow. My nails will pull at these ugly, brittle violin strings. I will scratch and prod until it hits a dense layer of white. And yet, no matter how far I go, I'm unable to scratch out the parasites laying eggs inside of me, these maggots that send waves to my brain and decay the material within it, and soon I start transmitting radioactive signals. Water doesn't do enough, they slide down my legs until they climb back onto them like a wet dog. Hands gripping and desperately trying to tear me apart, trying to vacuums the life out of a labyrinth of disgusting organic material. It makes me want to vomit. I'm running around in a spiral hitting myself against these barriers, smashing myself against them and hoping I'm strong enough to break through, but all I make is purple and blue dents that blemish on these unwilling doors. Sealed shut, I find myself looking up at the only opening there is, and I realize now that the world must be mocking me. I was a spider, trying to web my way to the top of the jar only to run out of silk, and all I can do is look above. Look above to the place I could've been, the place I deserve to be.  I put my hand up, wishing I'd be able to touch the glass from above, and imagine myself breaking through the thin layers. I imagine the barriers melting off my body like candle wax, wings lifting me higher and higher to my astral destination. But I'm not an angel. In fact, the more I try to lift myself higher, the more I sink to the ocean like a rusty boat anchor. The whale will let out a final hymn to a presence that has never called back to it. A presence that does not exist. The fish will eat at the carcass of the whale, and its bones will dissolve as it is consumed by worms for the last time.