I shut my eyes and silhouettes are pressed against my eyelids, reaching upwards like trees. Their roots push through the surface of my skull like soft earth. They stretch their fingers out, encasing me like a casket.
They start pushing and pulling, massaging and molding me like a piece of clay. They slither out of my mouth, those phantom tongues, and come around my ear to chastise me, to scold me. Those words spark tiny flames in my ears and suddenly the heat is extending across my face and gulping up my entire body like a wild forest fire. Nothing is safe and nothing is sacred. Not anymore. My bones are scorched timber and my skin is ash.
There's strange things inside me. Unless they're inside you too, and in that case, I guess they're not so strange.

Strange

by papoli

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