Symbiote

 

Creature,

I wonder, how did you come to be in my ribcage?

I feel you, your breath on my heart. I feel your tiny fists, wrapped round my spine, pulling. They bend my back effortlessly. My posture wilts and stiffens without warning. Strangers watch my contortions in confusion.

Now I have an audience. I write in the air with a cigarette, elaborating my point. Your ear is pressed against me, listening to them. The people are nodding in agreement. That’s when you begin screaming. I close my mouth so they don’t hear. They might worry, not realizing it’s a joke.

There are powers beyond us, Creature. I have no idea what they want, and they could very well be as callous as they seem. For that reason, let’s stick together. If you agree, simply apply a light pressure. Oooh. It tickles. You feel like a gigantic fart, just waiting to happen.

I’ve been thinking, Creature. The fish bump their heads against the glass. Is that what it feels like for you? What can you see in there? Do my lungs resemble angel wings? My organs must be soft as babies. What can you hear? Gentle percussion? Dripping noises? Voices? What does the spoon feel like as I slide its cool concavity over my outer surface?

Creature, I believe in demons. Their heads are like mosquitoes, and they suck you from the inside. And I believe in gods. They grow on you heavy like disquieting moles, though you must love them anyway. But I think, and I hope, that you’re not like either.

You are safe in me. I feel your void, the vacuum at your center. My heart is gravitating toward it, slowly making its way down through my torso. In the void swirl life and death, pecking at each other like baby birds – adorable, yet terribly, wonderfully frightening in their potential.

You are very special, Creature. Something must have brought us together.

So how about a drink?

Do you prefer red wine or white?