The other day, I hit a moth. I didn't notice he wasn't quite dead and found him, half-alive, stuck to my arm when I undressed to shower. I threw him into the toilet. It was so sad I had to write a poem about it.
I am the smallest there is. I composed the incessant music of your decaying attic:
I have been the barely-real spectre of your bedroom. I have courted your electric light bulbs
In the night. Sometimes I've watched you reading in bed and wondered
Why you do not flutter out of that cloying web of sweaty fabric
And settle on the ceiling, where the plaster is cool and the darkness is comforting?
I have been drawn to the iridescence of your bathroom and have believed
That I have been swallowed whole by the light of Heaven. There I have been
Frightened by the roar of water, and the slippery tiles provided no purchase.
I have seen you pink and naked: shimmering like a window pane at dawn.
I felt the itch and prickle of your clothes and have nestled in the dusty grooves
Around the glass of your vanity mirror. I crawled across the treacherous
Surface to look into your eyes and saw your disgust, vague and lethal.
And yes: I did feel the agony of your paper retribution,
The whistling swipe of your distain, and the fatal crash of your final satisfaction.
My crumbled carapace fell into your sleeve, twitching, suffering against your skin.
When you undressed to shower, you finally noticed me and tossed me into
The toilet bowl.