i have bacteria growing in my head, by Khaia Mitzi

I have bacteria growing in my head.
That’s what I call it now—
Bacteria.
Too alive to be imagined,
Too cunning to be mine.

They scanned my skull
After the incident—
Bright white lights,
Machines that hummed like lies.
“Everything looks normal.”
And that—that—
Is what frightens me most of all.

There’s something in there,
Squirming just behind my eyes,
Beneath the bone pulsing
In the quiet, watching.

Are we all just meat puppets,
Flesh vessels
Piloted by parasites
Coded in wet grey?

If my head moves my limbs,
But the thing inside
Is not me—
Then what am I?
Where do I begin?
Where do I live?

Am I the passenger
In this nest of nerves?
Or the parasite itself,
Squatting in a borrowed form?

I stare at my reflection—
Too long.
It looks human.
Almost.
There’s a delay.
A twitch.
A mimic’s stutter.

I tested it.
Skin, thigh—clean.
Arm—nothing.
Shoulder—blank.
But the stomach—
It moved.

It slid.
Slick and warm.
Like seaweed
That thinks.
It dove deeper,
Hiding.
Playing.

It knew I was coming.

Now it curls inside me,
A knot of nerves,
A wet fist of thought,
Threading itself
Through marrow and lung,
Lacing its hunger
Through my spine,
My teeth.

I scream—
But the voice is not mine.
I move—
But something else decides.

I claw
At floors,
At walls,
At the air—
Every plank,
Every surface
It might nest behind.

I will find it.
Tear it from its bone-cage.
Rip the truth from sinew.
Gut this thing
Even if it’s all that’s left.
Even if it’s me.

I will peel myself back
Layer by layer—
Until I see what’s real.
Until there’s nothing left to hide in.
Until I know—

Am I the parasite
Or just the shell it hollowed out?