@TheSadPoetryWriter
Worms are squirming in your earlobes, finding all those words you hated, things he said you try not to think of at night and bed bugs are eating up your mattress, all your secrets exposed under the covering, blood and sex but also sweeter things. Like whispered thoughts and innocent dreams.Termites got into the walls of your bookshelves watch all the volumes fall to the ground. Faulkner, Harper Lee, and Capote lying upset on the ground. Butterflies are dying on the glass of your window and you couldn't save them because you never open it up and moths are chewing into your clothes, all of the things that no longer fit. Insects reveal what we want to keep hidden, biting in to our very souls. Our lives are infested by little creatures whose struggles tend to mirror our own. I couldn't hurt a fly. I'm crying over ants they got into my cupboards and ate what I wouldn't. I can't help but smile they just want to survive. So why does it make us uncomfortable that things are so alive?
Unless it's because we aren't.
Not really.
