I wrote this for the imagery but revelled in the word play. Can anyone suggest a title?

It builds inside me
Slowly, slowly.
Almost gently it develops,
As I imagine embryos grow,
Or flowers.

I nurture it, wrap my heart around it.
I hold it inside me
like the burning image of a lover.
It is part of me now,
embedded and pulsatile.

I feel it in my core,
And I feed it as it grows,
I feed it constantly, consciously.
It feeds off me
All the while growing, growing.
Incrementally, inexorably consuming me.

To it I am both home and food.

Harsh sunlight stabs
My formerly sleepy eyes
Digging into my retinas
Like a dog burying a bone.
Hurting! Piercing!

How am I not bleeding?

I shriek and shrink like a salted slug
But my own shrill voice is drowned,
Buried by the caterwauling baby.

What baby?

Finally, glacially, I open my eyes
And my injured soul settles on its reflection in the too true mirror.

I reel back in horror,
I shrivel and squirm,
Sequestered inside my skull,
Repulsed by the abomination
That can't be me.

The too true mirror stares at me
Hard like a street thug
Cold like an assassin.

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There's more where that came from!