A Picasso Abstract

I feel like a parasite. Small, stealthy, inconspicuously scurrying into the looming shadows of my friends only to latch onto their flesh and never quite let go. Never finding my true niche, I shove myself into uncomfortable corners and persuade myself that it is the perfect fit.

The urge to puke grasps hold of my intestines when his arms slither, encompassing my waist. Pulling me close to him, I force myself to look into his golden eyes. This is right. He wants you. Not to want him back would be a sin. Hiding in the shadows of the scholars, I lie in an uncomfortable corner like a Picasso abstract.

The invalid truths that escape my lips flash across my mind like a teleprompter. Lies are the daggers that cut the bloodiest wounds. The verbal cancer spreads, infects and destroys the imaginary world behind the mind’s wall until both the unconscious and conscious are manifested with guilt and plagued by paranoia. My body is a cage.