White Worm Insomnia

My tremor-sick brain twitches in the black crow of night, electrocuting my dreams with sinister images. Beyond mere insomnia, fear and failure linger like an unwanted guest, prying my eyeballs open with crowbar force. It eats every minute of every day, insatiable, like a lone maggot slowly consuming my flesh in a life-long dedication to decay.

"No...No...No..." they all say. "We don't want your work, we don't want your anguish, we don't want you." My festering-alive cadaver threatens to burst open and spill its steely rage. If only I could burn these pages without reducing them to ash.

If only these cubicle walls would collapse and squash my droning guts. Then my ghost could fly far away as the busy work drowns in my gushing blood. Maybe then they would remember me.

Maybe then I could sleep at night, if they would eat alongside the maggot, wolfing my flesh and blood and bone. But you wouldn't dare sample my acerbic skin, not even for a taste of the sweet, meaty innards. The white worm eats alone, steadfast in its quest for bone.