mold
I feel the space between my cells growing.
Emptiness fills and pushes between nerves and
blocks the spark of feeling - signals aren't
reaching their destination. Stimulus isn't
creating reaction. My thoughts are slowing.
Emotions are dulling. It seems wrong and dreadful
like a body that once moved and laughed and cared
but is now melting into the cracks in the floorboards,
becoming a part of the house it's forced to sit in.
Alarm, agency and urgency all churn somewhere impossibly deep,
my throat slick with bile trapped down in a stomach unwilling to push it out.
All I hear and see is the cottony white noise of diseased mold
growing over my skin, out from my eyes and ears, germinated
from the obscenely wet and dark cancer-seed in my brain.
I'm a shell to it. It's spread so completely that I'm
indistinguishable from it and it from me. It's claimed
my life, yet still I walk.