thanks, i guess (13/30)

{I sat down to write a poem… and was, like, “fuck it.”}

.

.

I was waiting for the bus

watching thirsty bugs climb toward the rain.

 .

Worms writhed and reached their bodies out of the wet dirt.

The whole ground pulsed.

Clumps of mudding earth rolled as worms pushed through.  

.

I was entranced and repulsed, but

I just stood there, silent and still, staring down

waiting for the bus.  

.

I really am terrified of worms.  

.

I am not afraid to die, but

I am so scared of my body being infested

with those things;  

.

that is the only reason I am still alive.

That night, with the gun, before the hospital,

all I could think about was worms.  

.

2 years later

waiting for the bus,

in my new rainy city,

I just stood there, staring down

not even angry that I was outside the ground,

not even imagining myself beneath it.

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