H-MRSA.

No, I can’t hold your newborn baby…or hug your elderly granddad…or let you borrow my shaving blade…no, it’s probably not the best idea to share my drinking glass, either…
No, I do not have AIDS or HIV, although it sometimes feels as if I might as well, as limiting as it can be to be attacked by the unseen “Necromancer” whenever I am again visited by him. I have no way of knowing when he will appear to visit me, I never see it coming ahead of time; the only inkling I ever have is that horrid taste in my nose and throat – but by then it’s undoubtedly too late to stop him from the imposition of another “outbreak”.
No…the assailant that stalks my every move is one that I never knew existed prior to my “traumatic injury” and subsequent recovery in hospital; I piqued his interest while I struggled for my life there; I have never been able to shake his presence since, he clings to my being like an amoeba now.
For his dark purpose, I have been given the role of “a carrier”, though his weaponry is not always communicable through me, only when he invades open wounds in my skin and others touch me, or when he covers my lungs with his necrotic ugliness and I cough it out at other people in turn. I didn’t see him here for a long, long time – he is a master of deception and assimilation; he hid so well in my tissue for so long that he made his way into the bloodstream eventually while he still had the opportunity, before the doctors even knew of his presence. He colonized in my lungs, built up a massive stronghold there…
I’ve never been able to ditch him, probably never will. He makes my Life miserable when he power trips with my health and well-being, when he refuses to allow my skin to heal over a simple scrape and instead infects me, anew. He’s in my face; my eyes, nose and ears…he’s in my lungs…he has become part of my existence since I was “recovered”…I hate him.

Necrotomorph.

I’m writing it out…
finally writing about:
the plague that has come;
quite a while ago,
a few decades or so,
and already
infected everyone.
See, it first started,
to tickle,
at the hairline;
only to dig its way
into my bloodstream
with time…
all while the doctors
had their eyes on me,
the plague crept in
so surreptitiously…
they never failed
to unveil
such wisdom
so fucking blindly…
in the meantime,
this struggling
heart of mine –
became infected
thoroughly.
Clean epidermis,
a futile war…
when there’s
no surface
on your skin
anymore;
though try as you like
to scrub and slough…
truth is, I’m filthy –
you’re filthy;
and ‘clean’ is a joke.
I will never find out
how the plague
came about…
truth, for me
is a delicacy
that I must do
without.
Everyone said:
“oh no, it’s in your head.”
they sold me
on pills in the closet,
instead…
and while I was silenced
by the pharmacy
the plague
was busy
mimicking
my own biology.
Years went by,
disintegrated,
now am I…
stardust-carbon
that has been
manipulated;
shredded fine
these spiraling cells
are no longer mine;
they now belong to
a modified
nano-brew.