The Bedbug

My therapist said that I might have PTSD;
that the sight of any bug in my bed may send

 

me into hysterics. She says that I’m scything
too much skin off around my ankles, and my

 

 

neck, and that my own cherry-stain birthmark
could scare me too. She said that I’ve tore too

 

 

much hair out of the black-brown woodland atop my
head; that I go out of my way to watch bluebirds die

 

 

because I got shot in the back, and went down in
the fields behind my house. She says that I shouldn’t

 

 

try to reach for the wasp that scurry like angry,
yellow stars out of the ruby inkblot pooling over my

 

 

mid thoracic, and that I should get out more. But
what hobbies do I have besides picking at fuckboy

 

 

demigods that haunt the flesh? My therapist
said that I should write poetry about the pests

 

 

that hang around my home at night; but all I can
manage is some shit about silverfish in the moonlight.
 

 

 

My therapist said that I might have PTSD, but I
think that I would like a second opinion.

This poem is about: 
Me

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