Keep The Lights On

Help me;
this fear comes up as nausea,
swallowed down again and again
but it rises,
writhing,
a tentacled thing in my stomach
reaching up
the back of my throat.
It cries out,
claws for me,
laughs when I try
to crawl out from under it,
from around it,
from how it nestles in my gut,
ready to be birthed,
ready to come forth
squalling as some demi god of horror,
all my nightmares
finally made flesh.
This is what I will create
what I will be remembered for,
not brilliance,
not light,
but bloody terror
made real.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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