by Alyson Tait
I’m possessed. Taken over. Left without control. To be honest, I wish it were a demon, that I could pray away, but instead it’s just a wandering spirit. Instead it’s just a dirty ghost.
Inside and out.
She slurs her words, making it almost impossible to tell that she’s saying her name is Maggie.
Instead it sounds exactly like Maggot.
She uses my voice, but her dialect hurts my ears. She clenches my teeth together, moving my tongue into weird positions.
Maybe she thinks she’s speaking another language.
Or perhaps her mouth had more pieces when she was alive.
My lips pull inward when she listens to my boyfriend talk.
Squeezed until they swell – and not in the sexy way.
He laughs, asking for the third time what kind of prank I’m pulling. He’ll ask again later, I know it.
I gag at the thought of Maggie the Maggot kissing him when he finally tires of the joke.
I dry heave, and somehow it comes out a laugh.
I hate her, the ghost that possessed my body. I hate her with the heat of the desert sun and rage of…
What’s his name?
I can’t think anymore.
Not as my stomach turns over itself, rotting from the inside out. Maybe when I’m dead, I can possess someone too.
Then I, too, can kiss other people’s boyfriends.
Alyson Tait lives in Maryland where she got married, had her daughter, and began her writing journey. She has appeared in (mac)ro(mic), Wrongdoing Magazine, Pyre Magazine, and most recently at From the Farther Trees. You can find her on Amazon, and Twitter @rudexvirus1