Human Parasitism

When I wake, I taste the acid that is festering on my tongue, an  acrid remnant of a nightmare that visits me consistently; whether it’s out of courtesy or habit I will never know. My mouth opens mechanically, and without my consent a shriek bubbles in the back of my throat, preparing to explode with the force of terror.

But before I can make a sound, your too-soft lips seal to my mouth, swallowing my screams. I can only watch as you consume my fear, my hatred, my resentment; smiling as they slide down your throat as though emotion is an exotic elixir. When there is nothing left but awe, you pull away slowly, catching shadowy wisps of confusion between your teeth before they diffuse into the atmosphere.

“Your fear tastes like cinnamon.” Your voice is thick with lust, giddy with the thought of my shadows trapped inside of you. But your intoxication is fleeting, and soon you’re just grinning at me, as if I was right to let you feast on my problems.












Soon, all I can feel is a still numbness settling over me, a false calm that leaves me unable to leave your side. I can still smell tendrils of irritation swirling inside me, but as soon as I try to latch onto them, they vanish into thin air.

“I am angry. I am afraid. I am shocked,” I tell myself. But it’s no use: whenever I tried to summon the emotions, you simply touch me and they evaporated.

We are both addicted to each other, you to the power I make easily accessible, I to the emotional anesthetics only you can provide.  Mutualism: two parasites feeding off each other, both benefiting in some unnatural way.

“And what does my confusion taste like?” I ask, just for the sake of creating another awkward silence.





“Me”.