Mycelium

It grows where it’s not wanted. It spreads where it shouldn’t be. Try as you might, you can’t cleanse it fully. Always something remains, and grows, and spreads once again. It’s under your skin. It’s in your mind. It’s choking your heart. The rot spreads, and suffocates, and glows. Excise the stalks and caps when they show too clearly. Cull the luminescent tendrils seeping from your pores. Still it remains, under the surface, hiding for now but there nonetheless. This infection can’t be cured, only managed. The rot always comes back.