Insects

Five butterflies whirr around my head-- playing catch-me-if-you-can with each other's glowing, neon flutter. I'm elated to see these spectacular creatures in orbit around me, as if I, their sun-god, controlled the order of their motion. These insects of one kind are replaced with a another grotesque form-- and instead of butterflies, I see red, hourglass shapes on spiders' backs. They gnaw at my leg hairs and crawl up my bony spine, one furry leg at a time. Making sure to take a venomous, itching bite at every inch. But my hands cannot move. I am forced to bare witness to my own suffering and death. And that is why I write. I write to let the floodgates of my pain down, to release the winch of my stresses, to cause my readers discomfort, and to make them feel like children again.