talkative beetles flounder about beneath ones flesh
he, she, and us
cannot help but feel stillness
rather than multiple legs tickling at the ribs and lungs
pinchers hardly force downwards
though,
shells propel forwards
constantly-
-in harmony with the ticking of a clock
though when idol, silent and soft
organs are feasted upon
balloons under the clavicle pop in violence
skin begins to break; bones splinter without being touched, even when glued
because of the bugs
head chest stomach harden to lead
lead: swallowed once more
hardly audible whispers
are
still constant
none but one can hear
their voices of small
though
it does not succeed, he does not succeed
something heavier is needed
the day we can collectively grasp
a cold handle
Is the day that the bugs will leave us be
alone
and free
