There is an infestation of worms that have burrowed deep in my brain.
A mushy ball of slimy, dormant belly crawlers who are blind and unable to find food.
Until it rains.
Then they follow the pattering vibrations of the raindrops.
They wriggle and squirm to the surface of my brain and drink the waters of my emotions.
I used to allow them to feast, undisturbed.
Their gummy bites would numb me until I was drooling from the eyes, powerless.
I was simply a limp host who’d been programed to find the wormy pollution their daily nutrients by stirring emotion outside of me.
I now see them slurping my puddles of pain.
And I know that they cannot see me.
I have begun to observe their feeding habits, their mating cycles and I’ve found the burrow where they hide their summertime reserve of moldy grub.
Now, when I’m flooded with emotions, I kneel in the darkness and wait patiently to pluck them out, one-by-one.
I drop them into a rusty bucket and use them as bait to go after bigger fish in the murky pond.