I am the eerie disquiet of a thousand cicadas, rushing the wheat field, a plague on your mind. I think they’d rid themselves if they could, shed the exoskeletons of my crisis. I’ve been hollowing out for a long time, nurturing these interior maggots with my intestinal caverns. they feed on feelings of inadequacy, you helped keep them fat. I never should have listened, but I took a pick ax to my ear drums too late and now your voice is the only sound left in my head. it reverberates through these fused skull pieces. you are never enough. you are never going to amount to anything. I see the lips of others moving, I can’t read them. they could be trying to save me for all I know, or they could be reiterating the echoes. hit me in the chest, collapsed like a rotted tree trunk, sick with termites. I look down at the gaping hole of my heart home. she’s a shell, they chant, she’s a shell! then something evil and slug like crawls inside and makes me it’s hardened refuge. now I am as vile as you always wanted me.