The Bugs
In the morning,
when I am barely awake:
the bugs,
the bugs.
Oh, they crawl on me and I am happy.
What I would not do
to always have them
crawling,
crawling,
crawling
on me.
If I try hard
I can still feel their icky, little feet
scampering across my cool skin;
over my scalp,
up my back,
skitter and scatter,
nostril and crack.
To feel their subtle, tickling scratches …
Would you like to know this sensation?
They want to know you!
Not for just a little while
but always.
Forever.
To crawl over your body,
to discover,
to come to know
all of your body’s secret nooks.
To work their way into the warmth
of your dark and waxy hollows.
It would be a heavenly bliss for them.
Heavenly.
Will you say ‘Yes?’
Oh,
please say yes!
They are hungry for the feel of your skin
under their filthy, chitinous feet.
Their hunger is palpable.
Can you feel it?
Can you smell it?
Taste it?
I can.
It is driving me mad!
(This little chunk of insanity was conceived the year my daughter received a program that allowed one to type words onto the screen and hear them read back to you via a variety of voice simulators. The deadpan, robotic delivery was delightfully off-putting. I wish I could play you the recording.)
