There is a wasps nest in my attic, I thought, as I lay in bed next to you, ignoring the itch in my veins. Her voice played in my ears over and over.

She, like me, was always itching, shivering, hungering for the bliss of absorption into something so much greater than herself. Scratching at the holes in her arms and devouring men whole, barefoot, red-clad, shambling.

I was not her. I itched. I shook. I hungered. I allowed men to eat me whole and believed it would unlock some higher purpose, or ecstacy. I did not have the glory of a thousand live, wriggling things. I mothered no offspring, though the dirt in my blood multiplied itself tenfold and crippled me, contaminating.

I lay awake, entwined with that which told me I was wretched, yet deserving all the same. I traced the winding web of black mould and mycelium and let it inhabit me.

There was no wasps nest in my attic.

But I buzzed all the same.

There were nights when the buzzing quieted, when the phantom wings folded themselves neatly against my ribs, and something heavier took their place.

It began with the weight. Not metaphorical — not guilt, not longing, not the ache of wanting to be devoured or to devour. This was sedimentary. Geological. A pressure that settled over me as though the house itself had grown tired of holding me up and wished instead to pull me down. I would lie beside you, listening to your breath, and feel the mattress dip, then sink, then soften into loam beneath my spine. Soil filled the hollows of my collarbones. Dust gathered in the folds of my skin. I could not move. I could only descend.

She had warned me, once, in that voice that rasped like a hive collapsing.

“There are worse things than hunger,” she’d said. “There is being wanted by the earth.”

I hadn’t understood then. I thought she meant death. I thought she meant rot. I thought she meant the way her own body had begun to sag and slump, as though her bones were turning to mulch.

But no — this was different.

This was invitation.

The floorboards creaked beneath me now, not with age, but with anticipation. The house exhaled dust in warm, damp breaths. The walls pulsed faintly, as though remembering the pressure of soil packed tight around them decades ago, before foundations were poured and attics were built and wasps imagined themselves into being.

I tried to lift my hand. It sank wrist‑deep into the mattress, into the earth beneath it, into something that shifted and welcomed and closed over my skin like a mouth.

I did not scream. Screaming would have required air, and the room had grown thick with the scent of peat and old, wet leaves. Breathing felt like swallowing handfuls of grave dirt.

You slept on, untouched. Unaware. The ground did not want you.

Only me.

Only the one who had already let herself be hollowed out by hunger and mould and the promise of becoming something more than human. Only the one who had mistaken infestation for transcendence.

The soil rose around my ribs, my throat, my jaw. I felt it press into my ears, muffling the world until all that remained was the slow, patient heartbeat of the earth beneath the house.

I thought of her — red‑clad, barefoot, shambling — and wondered if she had been buried once too. If she had clawed her way out, or if something had spat her back into the world half‑formed and ravenous.

I wondered if I would be so lucky.

There was no nest above me.

There was only the ground below.

And it wanted me.