day 47

when i was nine, i stepped on an armadillidium vulgare. a woodlouse. roly-poly. potato bug. it was walking across the sidewalk one afternoon. i looked at it. i took aim. i stepped on it. no, i stomped on it. squashed it like a bug. what was left of his black shielded body were mere spots on the sidewalk and my shoe. it was dead and not even god could bring it back. a sudden sick feeling of guilt came over me and filled my insides with vomit and dread. i went inside, threw myself on my bed, and cried.

i’m still on my bed. it feels like i haven’t left for seventeen years. we’re all bugs eating life’s decay and hiding in the rotten wood of seclusion. no matter how tightly i roll myself in a ball, it will all come to a sudden end. i’m just waiting for that same fate. waiting to get stepped on. squashed. to be the crusty stain on life’s concrete. a splatter on god’s foot.

i don’t leave. i don’t move. i don’t live. pizza boxes pile up in the corner of the kitchen. mildew stretches across the ceilings and walls. a housefly buzzes between the curtain and window. it’s a battle of death verses death. the loser watches the other go. the buzzing slowly stops and doesn’t return. it looks like i lost again.