The roots are buried deep in toxic earth on which my feet desperately kick for traction. The vile soil is rich with the rot of resentment and poor choices.
My previous inertia has allowed this weed to entrap me and hold me stilled, so much that my choice to resist is hopeless and too late.
I cease, and my feet slowly sink into the poisonous loam. I have succumbed to my insecurity. The vines ensnare my limbs and wrap around me fully until they dangle from my digits. Soon they will erupt with foul foliage and blossom with ugliness, feeding from the dirt I have surrounded myself with and the actions I have given in to. This is a parasite slowly taking me: leading me to do things in an attempt to alleviate it which only make it grow more. Soon there will be only a brutish weed where I once stood.