Swarming, squirming worms. Warm, wet scabs.

She scratches and her skin again, breaking it open and more come out, together with blood and pus. They are everywhere now. The floor is covered in small, red and white bodies, up to her ankles as she sits in the recliner, a sea of bodies, an ocean of soft flesh, moving in waves. Yet she can’t see it. The worms took her eyes, ate them up from the inside out, the sclera making a tasty breeding ground.

Breaking, blistering openings. Occupied, obsessed blood.

She resists the urge to scratch it again. Just sits with the feeling of hundreds, thousands of tiny creatures moving up her arm. A small sigh comes from the man in the recliner next to her. The worms are crawling up his nostrils, filling him up too. Yet she can’t hear it. The worms took her ears, crawled inside, punctured her eardrums, to get to the wonderful snack inside her skull, so full of chemicals.

Fiery, foggy pain. Pitiful, private feeling.

They are eating her up from the inside. Taking small, nibbling bites with their small nibbling mouths. And she can feel every single bite. The pain is unbearable, the feeling lasting for eternity. She wants to scream, needs to scream. Yet she can’t scream. The worms took her tongue, explored every single crevice where any pieces of food could be, and then they got hungry again, filled her mouth to the brim with twisting, hairy offspring.

Needy, negligent thoughts. Trusted, tainted needle.

She can’t resist any longer. She scratches, taking of a large strip of infested skin, exposing her abdominal cavity. The worms pour out now, like a tsunami, dissatisfied with being exposed to the room. They ate away at everything inside and they smell like blood, shit and a half a slice of pizza. Yet she can’t smell it. The worms took her nose, stuffing it, and dying in there, preventing her from breathing.

Dawning, dreadful realization. Real, rotten drugs.

She comes off, slowly. The worms disappear, as does the feeling of being full. Now the emptiness is back, but only for a moment. Cold, disgusting feelings fill her up instead, taking hold of her mind, until she feel on the edge of tears. She shoves the feelings to the back of her mind, scratches her sores and prepares another hit.

“I prefer the worms.”