Nascent

It’s the constant nagging, writhing under my skin. I can feel it pulsating, negative charges shooting through diseased nodes. Bulbous veins tremble as if to burst with the juice of a millennia’s afterbirth. The placenta of the gods squirms through me, tentacles gripping and hooks incising lines of infinite knowledge onto the inner wall of my skull. My pupils dissolve and dance in a hickory induced madness, and the walls angle backwards, providing me with a trampoline. We hop together, the crone and I, the hag uttering sibilances into the oddly human ears of her ferret-esque familiar. “Back! Hold the line!” I shriek, cliches frothing, threatening my tender dermis. What blush I divine, I hold to my chest, but alas I feel my sternum crack. An Irish woman heaves in the mountains, a nest of foliage engorging her leggings. A tin-whistle spits fumes of musical horror, beasts wake from eternal slumber, popping infantile heads out of nascent bush-babies.