It’s a worm. Or maybe it’s a snake. It burrows into your center through bone. With sharp teeth that bite and draw blood. Or maybe they are shaped like spades. The kind of spades that dig up the garden in the middle of the night to bury what remains, all fine and minced and wrapped so tightly.

It burrows and bites and carves and digs. Through and through. To the ancient place. The stone hollow that breathes and throbs and hums, singing its ancient song in a language forgotten by time and known only to the dust in the stars. The humming, singing, chanting stars.

It makes its nest inside. Deep inside. So deep you can only feel the tiniest flutter from its slithering, wriggling tail. The tiniest itch. You don’t even stop to wonder where that itch is coming from.

The nest is soft. The nest is putrid. It’s a tangle of lies, strangling a truth and a bundles of truths, concealing a lie.

It wriggles and circles and mats down its nest.

You didn’t let it in.

It came all on its own, birthed on the breath of your mothers and fathers and grandmothers and grandfathers. It came while you were smiling and laughing and playing. You were outside, giddy in the sunlight, soaking up the joys of the earth and the dirt and leaves and air. You weren’t even aware it existed. It came as an invisible enemy, disguised as a friend.

You’re older. And the lie that is truth or the truth that’s a lie is still inside of you. But you can feel it now. The nest that it carved in the hollow of your chest is aching. It hurts too much to believe and it hurts too much to give up hope.

The blind little worm – or maybe it’s a snake – is whispering to you. Words only you can understand. It tells you what you want to hear then tells you what will hurt the most. It’s malevolent. Or maybe beneficent. Is it killing you or saving you?

It doesn’t matter.

You cannot evict it. But you can try to ignore it. You can harden the ancient place, stop the humming. Breathe in. Breathe out. Know you will live through this pain. Pretend you don’t feel the itch, the flutter. Try to fill in the hollowed burrows. Trap it inside. Starve it. Suffocate it.

Maybe someday. Maybe someday your suffering will come to an end. You will know peace again. Like the child dancing naked in the sun with the straw hat on. Unaware. Blissful. Ignorant. Joyous.

Maybe someday you will stand naked in your kitchen letting the sweet nectar of ripened fruit trace a path down your breasts and drip onto the floor. Grinning from ear to ear. You are alone. No one can see you. Or have you.

Maybe someday you will feel the light caress of the mother’s wind, stroking your face, kissing your cheeks. She is telling you that all is well. She loves you. You are beautiful.

Maybe someday the worm with no eyes will shrivel and dry up, choking on the dust of its own corpse.

Maybe someday.

Maybe someday you will finally watch it die.