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Bugging Out
Bugging Out
Alone, watching the logs burn—
sizzling, like my heart after your words.
Betrayal hangs, breath lingering and swaying.
My eyes crackle with the fire and the brokenness.
Where does your emphasis come from—
to berate, humiliate,
to call me lower than a bug,
invisible as the squashing.
Sloth-like, I move toward the shower,
turning the water on with practiced grace,
trying to drown out those uncomfortables.
You, callous in mimicry,
throw confetti insults at my face, my head, my body—
but I duck like a child playing tag.
You can’t catch me.
I hide behind an insult.
And then, with sadness, I watch you gather—
bow and arrow in hand,
no concern in your eyes
as you casually aim,
and release
the last piece of me.
Copyright ©
Patrick Cornwall
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