At night, resting 

in the soft hands
of the unbroken
dark, I dream 
that I am covered
in bugs. When I wake
the feeling never quite
leaves me. I scratch 
my scalp, pop my
ears, run my cracking-
skinned fingers up 
and down the rough
patches of leg, as if
something could be 
hiding there, just waiting
for my return to sleep
to crawl in my ear
and begin the endless 
buzzing, lay eggs there,
until this crawling might
as well become me, 
and the centipedes
and cicadas that I once 
called evidence against 
creation now claim me
as their own. 
 

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