The moss grows on me, The roots spreading under my skin, Itching me. Nothing at first,
A light tickle, A feather dusting across my skin. And then slowly, slowly, Creeping under my epidermis.
Infiltrating my protective layer against the world, Forcing apart my cells, And splitting them to bits, Like a it cancer flourishes.
Now it is in my dermis, Blocking my sweat glands, While I pull out my capillaries, And expose my raw flesh.
The moss is there but not there, My skin is black and green, But not. It is red and slick from the tears.