A Migraine is like A Throne

Originally posted January 18, 2022

Fleeting waves of mirage haze sleeting across my eyes like rot's reeking spore, each flexing the world's bounds further still—walls bow against absent pressure and cracks grow into gaping doors, and all the while the shimmering gem of aura's heart eats and eats and eats—

That brightly lit not-mouth, an angel dancing at the center of my vision; it's odd how similar a mouth and a wing and an eye can look, you know, how feathers are just teeth seen by someone who's still waiting to be taught how to be a victim.

Angels eat just the same.

And as they chew, as their eternal hunger sends blind spots growing like a cancer across the world, empty places hungry to be full, so to does the other side flourish: the marching threads of Decay, spreading and seeping and nurturing morsels of delicious entropy—

My flesh is a garden, fertile soil for Decay's seed, for the apoptotic gift shimmering in every cell, for the countless hitchhikers waiting on my skin and buried in my guts and lurking in the air around me, each patiently ready for my body to finally surrender.

Entropy always wins in the end, right? And Decay's probing fingers, it's sacred voids, do so love to help things along.

A void-never-filled may nonetheless escape the torment of its existence in the end of its chosen prey—only through feeding can it persist.

Inside my skull bands squeeze tightly, pressing through spongy bone, the countless threads of Decay's loyal minions waiting for the perfect moment to burst; the shimmering distortions of their growth, the angelic spores budding from their bloody gills to fill my thoughts—

Someday the mycelium will burst forth into a panoply of fruiting bodies, beautiful and obscene, and someday my rotting flesh and crumbling porcelain will be a garden for things which will never know this pain;

Someday there will be a better world, but not for any of us.