Paytan Douglas

I have a parasite.

It’s this ugly, twisted thing inside that squeezes my heart until I can’t breathe and it refuses to let go.

I have a parasite.

Its favorite pass time is screaming at the top of its lungs, “IN CASE YOU FORGOT, I’M HERE TO REMIND YOU!” as if I could ever forget its presence.

I have a parasite.

Whenever I try to unfurl its claws from my stomach to make room for another beast, it digs deeper, draws blood, and smiles in the face of my pain.

I have a parasite.

It’s been with me for at least seven years—maybe longer—but that was when I first acknowledged its hideous form.

I have a parasite.

Some people think it’s cute.

I have a parasite.

Some people think I’m being overdramatic.

I have a parasite.

Some people think I lie about its impact on my life.

I have a parasite.

I only lie to myself.

My parasite only answers to the name “Love.”