It started when she took up residence in my arm. The brachialis, to be specific (although I felt a tickle in my medial border, at times). She would whisper to me of her life in lands I would never see, and of her exile from Arcadia. I promised her safety, and she promised me stories.
I would sing to her at night, when the house was asleep. I spun tales of knights who moved mountains for true love, and warned her of the greed and hatred within men. We would spend eternities together, surrounded by moonlight and sand. Our joy was perfect, crystal pure and clean.
We would have had the world together, if it weren’t for the gnomes.
They landed in my ankle, stubborn and gnarled. Green hats and ironwood canes, they were not friendly, and did not care for sovereignty. They annexed my synovial membrane, and made for the hip within weeks.
We did the only thing we could do, and soon the armies made camp at my xiphoid process. The lines were drawn, and the conflict was now inevitable.
The first shots were fired some time ago. I write this missive to you as the war machines roll into place, and both sides begin consuming the land they hold, to destroy the land they do not. My body. My battleground.
I can hear the bones grinding, dead trees singing beneath my skin.