I woke from dreams where they were at my skin, jaw clenching, snapping, biting at the air only a breath from being in my flesh. I woke, sweatslick and trembling, curling into myself, my own teeth bared.

I woke to find them still there, gnawing, plucking, tasting, biting at me.

I clawed them off and ran, peeling them from my skin, throwing them into the night, hearing them fall away and crawl over one another, chittering along, clacktripsnapping mandible and articulated joint slipsnagpiercing.

I have run so far, so fast, to crawl away, to get away, but they come back. They always come back, out of the dark and the shadows, biting, biting, always biting.

They feast on what is left of me, when all I am is riddled with holes where they crawl in, crawl out. I am a mound, a hill, a home for them, but I am lace and space and more air than anything.

Soon I will be gnawed and gnashed away to nothing.

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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0 Responses to Gnash

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    Clacktripsnapping… that’s a good adjective for this piece. You give me the creeps, Jones, and I thank you for that.

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