As Advent advances, I feel an increasing ache that only the maggots and the manager bring. It is an ache one long-held in ransom; one born in lonely exile; one exhausted by expectation.
Deep memory wakes me in the night, like wormwood – when the bitterness you left behind seeps through the unguarded chinks in my mind. Your seed, the one with which you inseminated my soul; is rotting and wriggling like maggots from their parasitic placenta. In my slumber, you and your many faces come to me. You charm, coax, rub, hope, cajole, invite, entice, expect and enter. I avoid, explain away, rationalize, minimize, make excuses for, give in and finally open myself to the decay of you. I panic and wake myself, feeling the movement of imaginary maggots that I am certain must be there.