worms

The rapist in his wheelchair tracks slowly across a continent of frozen filth.

My sissy body is riddled with concealed listening devices.

I look out the window and dream of vomit plumes and dimpled yellow fat.

Outside is inside and I can prove it with topological math.

A baby with stubby wings breaks the sound barrier and disappears up its own anus.

The urine-breathed face of someone I don’t know leans heavily against my shoulder.

Is he dead or just very tired?

A lungworm peeks out his nostril, hesitates a moment, then wriggles down his sleeve.

The sun is grey.

I am cold. So very cold.