The Parasite

In the guise of love, you're my lingering disease,
A parasite feasting while I'm begging "please."
My heart is famished, starving for a touch so true,
I swallow your poison, thinking it's love's due.

You're my fever and my ache, my never-ending flu,
I confuse your toxins for medicine, thinking it's from you.
Your hands are like symptoms that weaken and break,
Yet I stay, thinking it's a condition I must take.

Your words infect, corroding my self-worth,
A slow-spreading plague, stealing my life's mirth.
"You're unlovable," you whisper, injecting your lie,
A toxic dosage making part of me wish to die.

I'm held in this sickness by my own desperate need,
To feel love's warmth, to see a healthy seed.
It's not that I love you, but my craving for love's light,
That keeps me tethered, enduring each painful bite.

But deep within, a dormant immunity lies,
A glimmering hope that one day will rise.
Could I find the strength for a dose of self-love,
The potent cure, to push and finally shove?

For now, I'm your host, where your sickness thrives,
A part of me withers, while another part strives.
But the question remains, like a diagnosis unclear,
Will I find the cure before I completely disappear?