I could swear I felt the sting,
as you injected yourself in my bloodstream.
In my defence,
I was high for the most of it.
I was drunk on all of that
your sparkly wings offered back.
And your melancholic gaze
I've only seen in fiction since.
I'll admit to my arrogance
to assume parasites were mostly worms,
when I know there are still songs
about pretty, magic, folk.
And I can feel myself both host and feast,
and all you see is just a treat.
And if I had soul, it's now ablaze,
and now all I do is waste my days.
And at this point in space and time,
your words occupy my mind.