I was never meant to exist; the carnival of grotesque, which I am.
And yet I contaminate the contents of my host, adjusting my bulges into her white framed skull.
She sits there now.
Pregnant. With fears.
I’ve always known how to make an entry.
I’ll crouch in, shrouded as a logical deduction.
A mathematical certainty.
But beneath the pathetic veil of it all, a mere byproduct of my host’s suspicions; a mental manifestation of her insecurities.
Some days we get along, and some days we act like strangers, while she plays hopscotch with her gut feelings.
That’s all the relationship I’ve ever had; a parasitic existence.
Always the runner up.
The two in a world of ones.
A leftover, scavenging for the spotlight.
The aftermath of her calculations.
Silently seeing how comfortable she becomes with the temporary.
How answers are most valued at the time of their respective questions. And how I’m needed only when those answers can’t make it.
I can hear the colours she’s seeing. Obnoxious reds with screaming oranges.
I’ve seen contentment, and it bored me.
But before I start the chaos, I must honour the peace.
It’s only polite .
Mehar Haleem is a seventeen-year-old student who writes for the editorial board of her school. She has previously won several creative writing competitions and her works have been published/ are going to be published in the forthcoming issues of Alexandria Quarterly, The Noisy Island, Sprout and Inklette. She currently lives in New Delhi , India.