a small
bug of unknown origin.
but he's here,
or she,
or them.
slowly it walks
across my
desk with no fear.
i have so many things
to crush
him with,
the stapler for one.
my phone,
my hand,
the flashlight,
a pair of scissors,
and a book of poems
by Sylvia Plath,
but i let him
go, hoping that this
decision will
not come back to bite
me.
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