Bugs

I cannot remember the bugs I killed    

without

feeling the pain

I caused them.

Burning innocent    

insects

with the end of my

cigarette,

chopping them in                 

quarters

with my

pocket knife

ant,

beetle,

spider,

ran in panicked patterns through     

backyard forests

littered with

juvenile beer cans.

I did not hate the bugs;

in fact I loved them.

They did not have the         

burden of knowing,

the burden of the fucked-up

labyrinth inside the skull,

pure and perfect with         

complex

evolutionary skills

able to perceive

tiny beauties of the             

world;

antennas and

microscopic ganglia

Envious of their             

simplicity,

I would repress

tears

as I crushed their            

exoskeleton

with the bottom of my

boot,

taking a long drag of the        

cigarette hanging

from my

mouth,

suspending the             

smoke in my lungs,

closing my eyes and                            

exhaling

a cloud of             

pain,

comforted in the

toxicity.

Sometimes I could see my         

father

in the reflection of their

tiny bug-eyes,

I would watch his image transform into     

myself,

skin marred with

perfect round and straight scars,

the abuse of alienation,

attempts to escape

humanity,

(I felt its evils).

I want to live with the bugs!

to crawl

along the dead carcasses

of trees,

to carry food with my

strong mandibles

for my friends,

humble in my servitude,

intrinsic to the

ecosystem.

I would perish,

unnoticed,

a pale, thin kid

in all black,

jaw tight,

burdened by knowing,

squishes me with the

tip of his finger.