My head is pounding like the magnified sound of a million ants treading heavily on the ground. The sound comes in waves in pulses. Comes to me in the night. Like the bugs under my bed, and on my ceiling. My head splits at its robotic hinges bits of drywall drifting. The bugs crawl out, spiders puring through my fingers spinning their webs for my hair. two shiny (too shiny) (too extravagent) (for my tastes) and they replace my eyes, turning black as my eyes fall away.
I can hear them skitter.
All traces of my humanity are gone.
As i lay in bed.
Six feet down from my ceiling, im buried in this home.