Infection

by Christopher Hivner

The tiny man

inside my head

knows the truth,

speaks it into my brain

in short sentences

with abrasive vehemence.

I don’t disagree

with him,

I know he’s right,

the evidence is everywhere.

As I drive down the street

he points out

the infections crawling

among us,

next to me

at the grocery store,

handling my food

at the restaurant,

screaming in my ear

that I’m next.

The tiny man’s voice

is raucous in my head,

can’t sleep,

haven’t bathed

in weeks,

the infections

are fighting to get

inside of me,

under my skin,

in my blood.

My vision is fading,

and all I can hear

is my friend’s voice.

Sitting at my bedroom window

peeking around the closed curtains,

it’s three a.m.,

no sleep since Tuesday

and today is . . .

another day, maybe Thursday,

maybe not.

The infections are outside

in the air,

in my trees,

on my house,

I don’t want them

to get inside of me,

I bought a gun

to protect myself.

I broke my bedroom window

and started firing wildly

at every infection I saw,

the things

were hissing at me

until I shot them

in their insectile faces,

stopping the chitter chatter

of their filthy mouths.

The tiny man

in my head

said I did well

and eased my fear.

I reloaded

and waited.

When the police

removed me from my home,

I pleaded with them

to talk to the tiny man,

but they wouldn’t listen.

Outside there was blood on my grass

and sidewalk,

the neighbors watched

and I recoiled

at the infections

oozing from

their noses and ears.

When they opened their mouths

to whisper to one another,

more slithered out.

“Shoot them! Shoot them!”

I screamed,

but the police told me to shut up

and dragged me to their car.

The tiny man

in my head

was suddenly silent

when I needed

him most.

The infections

crawled up my pant leg

and inside my shirt.

I closed my mouth

to keep them out

with no way

to cover my nose and ears,

I was being invaded

and no one

did anything to help.

I cried out,

lunging at one of the cops

to bellow in his face,

“Don’t let them in me!”

and then my tiny man returned

instructing me

to bite the cop’s cheek.

The blood filled my mouth,

his beard rough

against my tongue.

Right before I was

cracked in the skull

with a nightstick,

I heard the tiny man

cackle with laughter

before his voice

disappeared forever.

*****

Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books he intends to read if he becomes immortal and the echoes of very loud music. His new book of poetry, The Air Around Us, has been published by Cyberwit.net. Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams