Carnivorous Seed

I can feel the crunch between my teeth. 

Small sacks the size of chia seeds slide down my gullet. 

But this won’t fill the hole; it never does. I want, I want, I want—but I will not get it. 

There is something inside me that refuses to let it continue; it will not allow me to pass anything on. It deems that everything will expire here. To not be continued.

Illustration by Mara Wiedner

I will keep fighting against it. I have to. I have to try, if at first you don’t succeed. 

But this is something that I cannot control, something stronger than me. Something other beings can do, but I cannot. Something that all other living beings do, but I cannot. Even my plant can, for goodness’ sake. That thing sprouts shoots each day, and yet I do not possess the same ability. 

I grab another handful from the wall. I feel the seed-like things rub around my mouth, swirling beneath and under my tongue as I hope, uselessly, that they will provide me with the gift that I have not yet received.

A black thing scuttles towards my hand, eight legs furiously trying to fight off the sac-robber. My fingers inch again towards the amber and black, itching to grab a handful and shove it down my throat—deep inside. 

Hoping one day it will fill this carnivorous, cavernous seed that guts me. I picture myself on the bathroom floor, blood pouring between my legs, hoping one day it will all come to an end.