Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: The Night

The night brings buzzing
little insects that burrow into ears and crawl across flesh
They surface when it’s quiet and dark
They don’t exist until the plague

The Moths descend in drones,
watch with silent faces from the window
Crickets laugh, rubbing legs raw
The night’s sticky skin bursts
open, and they pour in

Flies throw themselves against the wall, bang
bang their heads
The Mosquitoes gather,
wait to claim

The night is not mine
It belongs to a mind diseased,
grooved like the rotting peach stone

I skim and skim
the thick surface of the night’s soup
like a water-boatman
to clear the carpet of crawling carcasses only to find
the night is mine and the mind is


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