prose

Butterfly gliding up and down in the wind: land nearby, please don't leave me.

My hand clutches the phone in the pocket as if it knows what happiness the device helped bring, and itself - the hand - intends to somehow please its master by using it again.

The eyes close and mind begins to dream, trying its best to release the pain and grasp at something better, something that its younger self might have thought.

My knees hit the ground as my hands clutch my stomach, acceptance creeping in. The sloshing stops for a moment, the parasite likely pondering the sudden absence of screaming just before.