mould grows in a bowl

on the floor, five feet from me,

thriving colonies,

productive in the ways I’m not.

maybe I should

let the mould take my place—

make my defeat its medal of fitness

so it can populate spreadsheets

with speed & precision;

so people will say, that mould

is such a go-getter,

such a self-starter.

Watch that mould

and see where it is

in ten years.

And its spores will

float down my throat

and feast on the moisture

of my lungs

until I am choking

on ambition.

and this room will fill

with dust and dirt

and a hundred

new fungal species,

diversifying the workforce.

black fungus chews

on my eyeballs

and into my brain,

consuming what

is left of my digestible

thoughts.

the mould builds

an empire,

breaks the plastic,

tupperware ceiling.

my skin sags from my bones,

my muscles atrophy,

I let the weight in the back

of my head drag me down

like cinderblocks on feet.

the mould wins awards.

mould of the year.

and I grow a mask

of blue-green fuzz

over my entire face.

my apartment walls erode

and the mould

buys its first house. it

writes an article in Toronto Life

on how to redecorate

without losing that

damp, musty smell.

The sludge that I have become

soaks into my duvet

and drips onto the faux-

hardwood floor.

I seep between

the too-wide cracks,

and once I realize

that I will lose my deposit,

I resign myself to my fate.

a fate that is still,

somehow,

more appealing

than once again

doing the dishes.