It's all getting too much. I feel like there's a woman sitting on my chest. She's not slight in stature or doing it playfully, this isn't foreplay on a Sunday morning - she's obese and she's pinning me down with her meaty knees, her pudgy fingers wrapped possessively around my heart. And she's squeezing. Squeezing like my organ is a stress ball and she's a smoker two days into a begrudging bid to quit. I wish her chest was open, rib cage spread like legs in a brothel, so I could reach in and grab her innards; repay the courtesy. Maybe then the feeling would fade, she'd readjust her stance, relieving me for a brief euphoric moment.
But she's set on her position, and with each passing second, each day's meals, her weight increases. I can feel myself snapping under it. Breaking slowly around the edges, creaking quietly further to finality. What relief that would be to fall into darkness, to be welcomed into the vacuous entirety of death. Free of the burden of tactile experience. But this woman is selfish, she's relentless and she's cruel. I think once I snap she'll keep my heart beating, crushing rhythmically just enough that I survive. I'll have fragmented bones protruding through my skin but she won't notice through her gluttonous rage. Too fed by the calm I give her. Then I'll be forced to keep on living, not quite sure of what I am. Of that I am terrified.
She found me through my desperation. She smelt the desire for success as it dripped in beads from my temples, as it seeped from my pores and dirtied my clothes. She was infatuated by it and to it she flew. She stalked me, kept to the shadows, taunting me slightly at every turn until her scent mingled in with mine. Corrupting the purity of my determination and making it something heinous and daunting. Something from which I could not escape. The toxin was ripe around me and it infected my lungs, weakening me. Then, as I floundered and fell. She pounced.
I never lost my ambition. It's what she feeds upon. Gorging herself on my frenzied hope of accomplishment, a feast plentiful with choice, all birthed from the mind of a man who can't decide. She can feel the fruits of aspiration sweltering intrinsically within me, she will not cease until they're all dead, maggots writing within them. Rotten, mold spreading like a disease, devouring them. Then she will be done with me, once my riches are spent. However they are woven innately within me. Byproducts of my upbringing. The veins that run through them are extensions of mine. And my end is all that can present them with theirs.
So we will remain like this, this woman and I, entangled in a non-consensual snarl - eternally. Until by the miracle of mortality, one of us fails to take breath. My lust for life ultimately forging our coffins.
