From the Vault: Supple Flesh for Insect Dreaming
(I wrote this circa 2006. Very deep, very dark, very DeadJournal.)
There’s a bug burrowing itself in my shoulder. It’s digging with its minute insect feet; scraping and tearing and gnawing at my dermis. This bug seems determined. He keeps looking up into my eyes, grimacing and furrowing his brow like I’d done something wrong to him. I haven’t tried to flick him off with my human fingers; only going so far as to breathe out through my human nostrils as a method of dislocation. But he’s not going anywhere. He has sap-like connections to my skin from the bottoms of his feet and he’s not budging.
Now he’s got a head in.
Almost there, he must be thinking, as he continues to deteriorate that lovely little spot next to my lovely little mole. He must want to fit his entire being inside of mine; probably will try to find a vein and hitch a ride around my circulatory system. Eventually he might invite his other insect friends and attempt to sell my body as an amusement park. Everyone will want to come. Ants, tiny spiders, flies, those undulating woolly caterpillars…I will be host and hostel for the international fair. I can even feel it now. That fuzzy caterpillar sliding through my blood, tickling my insides like a pipe cleaner, while little spiders ride along the top of it and nibble at my tubes overhead.
Maybe this bug will open a gift shop in the hollow canal of my ear and sell wax-covered pastries with some help from the local bee-populace, who will sell their honey at the store. Maybe I will become an organic co-op.
My tear ducts will become a water park. Insects will dig themselves into those tiny little holes in the corners of my eyes and pinch at my nerves until I let out a big wet drop. They’ll splash down the sides of my cheeks with their little legs in the air, waving to their mothers who are standing on the top of my nose, watching their children grow up. The ride ends in the nestled nook of my cleavage, where the ride conductor will greet them with a big smile and honey combs; complements from the cranial co-op.
The possibilities are near limitless. With enough determination, this bug will make fortunes after renovating my form for his vision of wonderland.
But the scratching has stopped. I look over to see the little bug’s body tucked neatly into my skin, laying still; a dermal-grave.
I feel something on my forearm now and am brought to the attention of another little bug, who is digging and scraping its way into my flesh and I realize that my body is not an amusement park. I am a resting place.
I lay myself down to sleep with the sensation of prickles all along my flesh while wishing they were riding through my veins instead.
(Lololololololol.)
