Writer, Artist, Model

Cockroach Blood

I wish for the delicate delight of ecto-skeletal fracture followed by a deep delicious silence.

Everyday I am relegated to scurry about

I’m tired of the scurry.

I’m tired of mopping up crumbs from others tossed sandwiches,ditched desserts, and slurping up sweet liquids from the bottom of the glass.

I’ve roamed these streets for so long, a beast that can never cease to exist

Even radiation, poison gas, steep falls, broken glass, only make the hairs on my gentle legs stand for mere moments.

It use to be thrilling, the other roaches and I would place bets, take chances forging on kitchen floors, bathing in filth and shit and for most of us we’d always come back unscathed.

At first we would laugh, and then after the years passed we’d become concerned.

Where and when would this end?

We became bolder still, trouncing through the finest restaurants, showing up in microwaves snacking on baked potatoes as they warmed, and still nothing.

I could feel my insides begin to cook, but I recovered quickly.

Me and the boys would get drunk on the finest whiskey we could find, some days we’d even show up powder white after eating our way into plastic sealed cocaine.

Occasionally we’d stow away in luggage.

We’d see the ocean, and scale the walls of tall monuments, even in broad daylight it seemed we were in-consumable.

I was once attacked by a bird, and ever so briefly I had hoped that this would be my moment, before he promptly spit me out.

They tell me I am this thing, a cockroach, and that I have cockroach blood, I have the ability to survive like no other animal on earth.

They can have me, I never asked to be this thing, to live this life, so next you see me scurry, take a deep breath, and try, give me the boot, let the spray fly…

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