The Host

The signal in my head, it

buzzes in codes and keys

like bionic botflies

burrowing,

lapping at the host,

eating ones and zeros.

I’m a geometric grid

of honey holes

and black eyes

that gleam in the night

when they wriggle about

and feed.

I itched to the bone,

to extricate them. There’s

pulp beneath my nails

like red clay

at the river

where we used to play.

I’m not myself.

Save me.