It's like a million little bugs
biting at the insides of your skin.
Chewing their way into your marrow,
breeding and laying their paracistic
little eggs.

You feel them wriggling every
inch of the way. Picking at
your blood vessels with all six
of their legs.

Keep telling yourself
you don't need
to let the bugs out.
If you say enough
it just might come true.

Just like believing in
Santa and The Easter Bunny.

Sit on your hands,
take your useless pills.
Even the bugs are laughing at you.

'Have you even read the label?'
they jeer, 'Psych meds not insecticide.'

You already know that won't
stop them, and you can see them
under your skin twitching and smirking
at you. They know you're at their mercy.

They're in your brain rearranging and
erasing your memories, changing you
into something else.

Now they're in your eyes,
eating out all the color.

This can't go on.
You did it the doctors' way,
you tried, you really did.
But this is the last straw.

Two neat lines
just below your eyes.
This will make them leave,
you know it will.
It has to.

It's worked before,
but the doctors made you stop,
and you see now that the bugs
had gotten to the doctors first.

And it does work,
you feel some of the bugs being
forced out by the beating of your heart.

The rest however don't move.
They pause in their endless cycle
of replacing you with more of them
for the briefest of moments.

Now shrieks start,
the larvae and eggs nested
in your bones

So you dig your fingers
deep into your skin
[just like any sane person would do,]
desperately trying to pick your bones out

But it's not enough,
they're in to deep.
No amount of blood with will
set them [or you] free.

You know it should hurt.
It doesn't. Even when your bones
crack like so many crab shells,
you don't feel anything but relief.
This is what will work.

You stand, your body shaking
Your body sags into a near by wall,
chest heaving, you steady yourself
for the next step-breaking every bone
in your fragile little body.

Three quick slams
and you can hear your shoulder joint
pop like a champagne cork.

The grin sliding across your face
is ripped and tearing at the corners.
Blood dripdripdrops into your mouth
and bugs wriggle across your teeth.

You crush them, swallow them and digest them.

You ready yourself for a second go
at freedom.
Your heart and lungs can't keep
the right rhythm, and you stumble mid-step.
That's all it takes for your head to implode.

This may or may not be the end. I am however sick of picking at it.