Squirming worms of dread
of deepest desires and unfinished threads
of words you thought had been finished
until you heard the whispers of them again.
Walls have marks of the things
sliding up and down
until their silky bodies fall
and writhe on the ground.
You asked yourself if it was your fault
that the worms had not been killed
but you remember all the feelings,
how they made you want to keel.
Squirming worms of dread,
on the walls and in my head.