This beast I carry.

I can't scream out. I can probably make a sound that would alert people to my discomfort but I don't want anymore exposure than I'm already getting, the kind of attention that prefers ignorance as a response. The creature on my back sticks to me as a limpet to a rock, chaffing my skin and grinding into my being like sleeping always under wet sheets. This dark soundless weight stuffs its fist down my throat, seeding me with numbing junk of a sweet sham kind. When the fist is free from my bruised gullet it makes itself scarce and I am free again as I had always been and this bile rides up and out making shapes that form an image of myself that I cannot recognise on the ground about me and are greeted as I. I am just a shunned and dumb surragate, there for nothing but to provide metabolism and carriage.