I swear there are things
that come out of my feet
little black and white dots
or tiny pebbles, they're like rocks
I just want it to stop
Just want to move on.

Well, sometimes they're not stones
sometimes it's fine silver hair
They come from nowhere
I can feel them creep on my skin
fuck, where should I begin?
How could I ignore it or pretend
I don't want my life to just end

Except I'd swear it's an invisible bug
it's the back of my neck that it hugs
until tightly snug
like a bug in a rug
they come from my rug
I think it lives off my blood

Why shouldn't I tell anyone?

I only call them that
because they leave tracks
heaven forbid that I paint
as it makes itself an acquaint
thus tracking around big bug prints
but, in paint.

I think they just might be mites
sometimes I feel little bites
especially at night
grinding through bones alright
carving tunnels through my mind
they're in my head-there; you're right.

statistically, a person with Morgellons disease, is 800 times more likely to commit suicide, than the rest of the population.


© Amanda C Granado