Insect, 
crawling on the wall. Grip 
so tight, so sensual, it makes me quiver. 
Diseased, 
I digress. 
I don’t notice until its too late. Feet crawling on me, 
I hate it. I wish I saw before the sense of impending doom. 
Too late. 
Goose skin. Chicken because you always preferred the flavor. White 
wall infected by your embrace. Slow ascent, 
how I’d wish you’d fall. Instead, I become 
God. Here I judge.  
Not by character. Disgust 
fills me as I paint the canvas with your blood. 
I am no Shakespeare, much less  
a holy name. My fingers poisoned as I have claimed, life 
that was never mine. Rest in peace. 
Lest you die trying to fly 
from my mind. No remorse as you lie in your filth. 
Scum on the wall. Chartreuse. Unlike the brown of your soul. 
You should have acted aloof in your step. Deceased on a wall, 
not yours. 
The texture of your place of death, reminiscent  
of my skin. 
A memory of agony painted in your exoskeleton. 
The gods played you 
tricks. 
Had you reincarnated a ladybug maybe, 
there would be my sympathy. 
Pay respect to the lowly cockroach on your way out. For you are unlucky. 
Kafkaesque. 
Alas you are no more than the pest of which I know 
no name. 
You’ll be forgotten the second a damp rag hits the wall. 
No soap needed, 
but I add for satisfaction. Knowing I wipe your existence,  
a plague, 
from this plane of life. 
So please stumble. 
I offer, 
Brown spec. 
As my eyes bless themselves with your twitch, 
I find that sickly, 
diabetic, 
infested smile returning to me. 
Yet I do miss you. The joy. The death.