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I'm nurturing a child of my own, despite all the proof that I have failed as a man. Though I'm dripping with disease, this child clings to me. The world averts their eyes. He foams at the mouth, choking out the crudest sounds representing his decaying mental landscape.

Though he may be abhorrent in form, I must give him love in a way that no one dared to love me.

When all is done and I am gone, this child is all that will remain of me.

I let him feed upon my flesh and drink my blood to quench his rabid thirst. I fight back my utter revulsion. Streams of blood mixed with saliva dribble down his chin and soak me. All is right between us.

Born from solitude and sorrow; as he grows, he takes on my form. Worn though solitude and sorrow; as I age, I take on his form. We are one and the same, my parasitic twin.

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