Creative Writing, OldVenue

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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