The Bile Collector: A Poem For The Watcher Who Should Not Be Watching

You arrive like mildew—uninvited and familiar,
creeping through the cracks where light dares not linger.
I feel you before I see you.
A ghost with greasy fingers pressed against my windowpane,
fogging the glass with your need.

You slither through search bars and bury yourself in my roots,
like worms who mistake the garden for a grave.
I know your shadow—it blooms behind the screen,
an oil-slick reflection where curiosity curdles into rot.

Your gaze is a fever,
a centipede crawling up the back of my neck,
its legs whispering lies with every step.
You wear invisibility like perfume,
but your scent betrays you—
a mix of copper, desperation, and bile.

I taste you when I speak.
You are the phantom in my throat,
the acidic rise before the purge,
the gag before the scream.

You hover.
Not like angels do—
but like mould spores, patient and poisonous,
waiting for the right humidity to bloom.

You are fungus beneath fingernails,
data with a heartbeat.
You are breath caught in a throat that never belonged to you,
watching, always watching,
as though my soul were a slideshow for your consumption.

But make no mistake:
I see you, too—
etched in the silence between clicks,
stitched into the loading times.

And if you’re waiting for a welcome,
a wave, a wink, a whisper of consent—
I hope you hold your breath.

Until it chokes you.