A Bellyful of Maggots

You see it's the extent of the treachery that gets to me. It's like the Dutch boy has removed his finger from the hole in the dyke. The trickle becomes a flow, the water gushes forth, the hole expands, the dyke collapses.

There is a flood. We are overwhelmed. We drown.

I'm drowning now. In all the lies you told me. I can't even seem to get my head around them.

Was there even the slightest semblance of truth in all this mendacity?

Each lie, like a maggot in my belly, eating away at me. And truth, like methylated spirit, to kill each maggot. But oh, does it sting. Each maggot killed feels like a tearing, a severance. I was cuddling my maggots, they took refuge inside me, my bastard children.

Lies, like tumours.

Lies, like festering sores.

Lies, like that look in your eyes.

I just don't understand why you would make all this effort. I'm not worth it. Really. And now, you're on the phone harrassing me. Constantly. Now that I don't want to speak to you.

You don't know, do you? You don't know just how much I know. And who told me. And how you now appear, a dimunitive figure, just sad and ridiculous.

Evil is, as it ever was, privative.

A lack of something.

A hole in the air.

An absence.

You shrink in front of my eyes. You become less and less. You turn to shadow.

While I keep vomitting maggots.