I hear a confession a broken heart I hear a world falling apart

I know its time for me to appear I know its time my disease is severe

Flowers bloom from within your lungs flowers bloom as the girl succumbs

Cough cough over and over again cough cough there's no help for them

I have but one cure but its too unlikely I have but one cure oh isn't it lovely

Coughing flowers mixing with blood coughing flowers for its you I flood

but what's this? what's this I see? oh but what's this? "do you love me?"

The answer is clear as I start to fade the answer is clear and I feel afraid

my time here is up as he accepts her love my time here is up and push comes to shove

unrequited love her journey was rocky unrequited love the disease of hanahaki

Trypophobia; that’s what they call me.

Apparently, I’m nothing special to most people. Just creep them out a bit.

But there is this one person who is terribly afraid of me.

The last time they encountered me was one day on a stroll through the forest with their family. I was sitting there, waiting, my hole patterns resting on a leaf.

They’d just peeked over for a second, the human, but that was all it took. They saw me.

They screamed and shuffled backwards, alarmed. Their companions looked at them, confused as to why they were hiding behind a tree. The human’s heart was racing, their eyes wide and their body shaking in hardly visible vibrations.

I smiled to myself. See, I could do more than give you the chills; I can make you have panic attacks!

How wonderful something as simple as me could cause great reactions.

Take that arachnophobia!

_(I have my books: The Eternal Ones by Namina Forna, Court by Tracy Wolff, and Midnight Sun by Stephenie Meyer. _💀

_So, yeah, I don’t really feel like writing today. And yes, if you’re wondering, I do have a mild case of Trypophobia—it gives me goosebumps and makes my heart race, those disgusting cluster of things. _

Anyways, thanks for reading and have a wonderful day! 💙)

I start with the toes. You feel the tingle there, wondering if it’s something you stepped on, or a splinter. You shrug it off. You forget about it, but then I hit your knees with pain. Those are the first bones to go. Then your arms, elbows…You can’t ignore the pain now, and wonder if it has something to do with the toe pain you felt last week but is now long gone. The doctor says you’ll have to wait for results. By then, I’ve moved to your brain. The brain is the mastermind of my plan and helps me play with your tendons, skin, and organs. Stomach, intestines, kidneys, all targeted precisely one by one to ensure maximum impact. When the doctor reviews the autopsy report, they say you were eaten from the inside out.

I stare at the darkness, questioning, thinking. Will sleep slumber me tonight? Or will Insomnia force my heavy eyes to be awake?

My feelings of guilt feed Insomnia, making her stronger, making her sly. I can feel her talons brush against my cold skin under the blankets. “Think of what you did, you tireless fool. Think of how they feel because of your actions.” She whispers thoughts into my mind, paving a road to keep the wheels of my mind turning. “Remember that embarrassing moment you had today? You’re ridiculous. Everyone will think you’re a fool.” I try to fight her sour words. I try to fight the shadows that keep my eyes open. “Stop!” I yell. “Please, sleep, overtake me, drown me if you will. Please!” I beg and beg, screaming pleas into my pillow. Insomnia leave! Leave please! I can no longer live to be awake anymore. Let my dreams haunt me, at least sleep will fill me. But please, do not hold me in your iron grasp, where I cannot escape and be held as your prisoner. If I do not sleep, death will swift me away, into the darkness that fills me every night and lingers in the day under my eyes. “Maybe that is what you deserve.” She whispers. And I am beginning to believe her sickening words, if only she’ll finally leave.

I’m the darkest swamp in your forest. I’m torrent. I’m like your own shadow always following behind you. So enjoy the veiw. I’m like a tornado. I’m the volcano. I will make you erupt. I’ll deconstruct you.

The apartment was in shambles, with mess and clutter strewn carelessly across the floor. Dirty clothes, empty bottles, and other various items that Caylee had been swearing week after week to clean up. But lately, there didn’t seem to be a day when she was sober enough to stand. Let alone clean house.

She sat slumped on the couch, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in her hand. The room smelt of stale Bacardi and yesterday‘s pizza— mixed with the lingering scent of Ian‘s cologne. A torturing reminder of her mistakes.

Ian had just left. His words still echoed in the silence. “I can’t do this anymore, Caylee. You need help. I’m done.” The door had slammed shut behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the ever-present company of her vices.

As the whiskey burned its way down her throat, she closed her Blue, mascara streaked eyes. She leaned back, savoring the taste on her tongue, and wished for oblivion, for the nothingness that the next drink promised. She took another swig, then another, until the bottle felt lighter in her hand. She let it hang loosely by her side, her eyes unfocused and adorned with dark circles.

“Look at you.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. The room swam in front of her. “Wh-what?”

“You’re pathetic,” the voice said again, and this time, she realized it was coming from the bottle. She blinked in shock and stared down at it, her heart racing in her chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, bringing the bottle closer to stare at it open mouthed. But it wasn’t her imagination. The voice was coming from the bottle. And it’s tone was sharp and mocking.

“That’s why Ian left you,” it continued, each word laced with malice. “He got sick of your bullshit. Sick of your lies. Sick of me.”

Caylee’s grip tightened around the neck of the bottle. “You’re not real. This isn’t happening. I’m just… I’m just too drunk,’’ she slurred.

“Oh, I’m very real,” the bottle hissed. “I’ve been with you longer than Ian. Longer than anyone. I’m your only friend now.”

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, that’s not true.”

“Who else do you have?” the bottle sneered. “Who else is here for you at three in the morning? Who else listens to your sob stories, your cries for help? No one. Just me.”

She wanted to throw it across the room, to shatter it into a million pieces, but she couldn’t let go. The bottle seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a dark, malevolent presence that had wormed its way into her soul.

“I’ve ruined your life,” it said, almost gleefully. “Your job, your relationships, your health. I’ve taken everything from you, and you let me. You welcomed me with open arms.”

Caylee’s eyes filled with tears. She knew it was right. She had given in, time and time again. She had chosen the bottle over Ian, over her friends, over everything. She bowed her head as a tear slid down her cheek.

“But you need me,” the bottle mused. “You can’t live without me. And you know it.”

“I can,” she nearly pleaded, her voice trembling. “I can.”

The bottle laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “You’ll come back. You always do. You’re weak, Caylee. You always fall to pieces. And I’m always here, waiting.”

She wanted to scream, to run, to escape the dark voice that seemed to know her every fear, her every weakness. But she stayed frozen, the weight of the bottle holding her down. Smothering her. Crushing her.

In the quiet of the apartment, surrounded by the mess of her life, Caylee felt the suffocating truth of the bottle’s words. She was alone. Ian was gone. And all she had left was the dark, unrelenting presence of her addiction.

The only thing she knew to do was the only thing she had ever done. So she took another drink, and another. Until the bottle’s voice faded into the background. ————— OK, so I realize this writing is pretty corny. But the prompt said to personify the disease. This is the only way I knew how to do that to make it seem half ass realistic.

Sidenote: The bottle is not really talking. She is way too drunk and this is supposed to be her conscience talking to her through the bottle.

✨this story is supposed to show what it’s like to live with a personality disorder. With everybody telling you one thing, but you perceive another.✨

I tilt my head up to the orange sky, the black clouds skating above my head, gathering on the horizon. It looks like a storm was coming soon. “Hey, beautiful day?” An elderly man tilts his cap to me.   “Um..yeah. Can’t help but feel like a storms coming though” I laugh.   “Storm uh? Nah, clear blue skies for the rest of the week.” He smiles.   The wind rushes in, as I pull my cardigan tighter around me. “Getting a little nippy out.”   “Weather said 18 and sunny. Maybe your coming down with something lass.”   “Yeah...maybe” I smiled as he hurries on about his day and I trudge off to meet my friend. _18 and sunny, clear __blue sky. _Man was clearly a nutter. It felt like 5 degrees to me. I humph onto the bench next to my friend. “Hey, scorcher out today.” She greets me.   “Um...don’t you think there’s a storm coming?”   “Nah, lovely day.”   “If you say so.” I sink down on the bench. “I’m bloody freezing!” I shiver for emphasis.   “It’s anything but cold! Are you alright?”   “Yeah I’m fine, maybe just coming down with something.” I watch the wind chase some litter down the path, probably left by some unruly kids. I wish that I had thought to bring some gloves with me.   “Hey are you sure you’re okay?” She frowns.   “I said I was fine.” I snap, feeling immediately guilty at the raised eyebrow. “Look, maybe I’m not feeling great. I should just go home.” I stand to leave.   “Okay, but call me later, so that I know you’re good.”   “Yeah, see ya.” I huddle deeper into the soft warmth of my cardigan as I walk. Keeping an eye on those black clouds that seemed to be darkening to a deep onyx.   I sit down in front of a boring programme on the tv, thinking about the conversations that I had that day. Blue sky, 18 and sunny, are you okay. Why do they not see what I see. What was wrong with me. I drift in my thoughts until I hear the distinct ping of rain hitting the corrugated steel of my shed roof. No storm indeed! I thought as I looke out. The heavens opened and the rain runs in rivers, a proper cloud burst, that drenched the town in seconds. I watch for a while before I call my friend, now she would have to believe me about the storm. It was happening right now.  “Well what do you think about this rain then. Told you a storm was coming.” I gloat at her “hello”.   “Rain? A bit of drizzle sure.” She laughs, “wouldn’t call it a storm.”    I frown as I watch the rivulets run down my window pane, their courses bending with every gust of wind as they made their way to the ground. “Drizzle? It’s pouring down.” “You always have to make a mountain out of a mole hill don’t you.” She chuckles.   “Yeah,” I laugh half heartedly, feeling like an idiot as I watch the heavy rain splash on the pavement. “Just really called to say I’m fine, but maybe I should get an early night.” I sigh.   “Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you later.”   “Yeah bye.” I hang up before she could say anything else. This was way more than drizzle! Every bodies gone stark, raving mad!   A flash of lightning lights up the darkening night and I open up my black door to watch the atmospheric pyrotechnics. Purple sparks of knife lightening cut from cloud to cloud, lighting them up grey. The heavy grumble of thunder sounding like the gods were at war in the heavens. I watch for a while, until I get too cold from the biting wind.   “Did you hear the thunder last night?” I ask my mum excitedly the next day.   “Thunder? Probably just a truck on the road.”    “No it was thunder, lightning and everything. There was a storm last night!” I was practically shouting at this point. “I must have slept right through it then.” She busys herself with a project.   I huff. Slept through it at 6pm, _yeah right! Utter madness! _I sulk. Finishing my cup of tea, fast, as I hurry to get back home, and leave all this insanity behind me.   _Blue sky, orange sky. White clouds, black clouds. Hot, cold. Next they’ll tell me that the grass is red and the weekend starts on a Wednesday! Is it me? Why can’t they see what I see. What’s wrong with me? _No it’s them, they’re blind, stupid, mad. I saw the storm, I watched it for half an hour. Why did they not see? Is it me?   I huddle on my couch, safe and warm in my house, watching the mind numbing tv. Wrapped in a soft blanket as I debate with myself, over and over again until I fall asleep. One last thought dragging me down into the dark what is wrong with me...

I watch her walk in and out of the house every day but she doesn’t seem to notice I’m there.

I know if she just gave me a chance that I could help, but sometimes it’s like she purposely avoids me. If she only let me: I could carry some of the burden and make her forget the pain.

People call me manipulative for reaching out at her worst times, but I think if she realizes I love her at her worst that deserve to be there at her best. I just have to be patient.

I caught her looking at me before she left the house today. She didn’t think I noticed the hesitation in her judgement or the longing in her eyes, but the chemistry I felt was undeniable.

I knew I had to calm down before I ended up popping my own top, but the thought of her rapid pulse and dilating eyes kept coarsing through me the same way I wanted to coarse through her.

I have a good feeling about this.

The sound of the door swings open and startles me; a siren of cries bouncing off every wall in the house. Before I can even get a chance to comprehend what’s happening, I feel a hand clasp around me.

“Finally.”

I mutter to myself as she presses me to her lips and consumes me the way I always new she would.

And as she calms down and we finally drift off to sleep together, I can only I pray nobody pumps her stomach this time.

Poke!

Poke, Poke!

Jab, Jab!

Time to poke someone!

She has trust issues.

Poke, Poke!

Aw, Why is she crying?

It doesn’t matter if she pokes herself with a sewing needle.

How are shots any different?

Doesn't she trust doctors?

Pooookkkeeeee!

All done!

She hasn't gotten over it?

This isn't fair!

Week One Dear diary, me and my family have entered our new home, our last entity had too many white soldiers they took away Cousin Flu and his family. I hope the white soldiers don’t find us, in our new home!

Week Two We arrived at the lungs I am in a battle field Mommy and Daddy are fighting with the soldiers. The Mucus Family is helping, Mommy told me to infect the weak point… still trying to find it.

Week Three We won… Daddy is happy but Mommy was eaten. Daddy is now sharing Uncle Mucus’s wife with him. I am a hero… apparently. I successfully infected the weak point I finished Mommy’s last wish, but I am not happy. This is not a victory…

Week Four Dear diary, our colony is growing bigger. Uncle Mucus was spat out including a few other members of the Mucus Family. Now Daddy has Aunty Mucus to himself. I hate Daddy he forgot Mommy I am the only one that remembers.

Week Five Dear diary, I am making my way up to the brain and eye. Mommy would be proud of me. But I see someone in the eye. A girl… she is crying, a thin and boney hand reaches out and touches her head. I realize something… our human is a mother.

Week Six Dear diary, I hope Mommy understands why I will save this body. The female human is dying fast so I have to eat all of our colony. I have to save the woman I couldn’t stand Mommy dying so I know how the woman’s daughter feels. Gook luck to myself!

Week Seven I-I did it I ate all of them. Goodbye Daddy. This time I am traveling up the throat to get out of the body. But I hear something in the ear that makes my blood boil. “Meet your new mother Chloe!” A voice says happily “Wh-what? But Moma is still here!” I fragile voice sniffs “That woman is gone she’s dying! Your real mother is here next to me!” The male voice bellows “No!” Chloe sobs “She’s alive… she’s here… she’s going to recover!” I hear enough I have made a decision. I will continue my work but on that MONSTEROUS MAN!

Weeks Eight- Nine I successfully infected the man and Chloe’s mum and Chloe are safe. I have mated with a virus and produced babies that will carry on our name, our family will save the innocent and harm the evil.

Weeks Ten-Twenty Dear diary, I am living in a man who killed eleven people. My husband and me have traveled body to body killed evil and saved lives. Now my son is teaching our grandchildren our way of life. I am happy and proud of my deeds, I try to forget my past, but it still haunts me. But I have excepted it as part of me. I am Mira Covid, The Kind Virus. Signing off…