Skip to main content

They Crawl Still.

They are small. They are many. On my cupboard. In my cupboard. Against my windowsill. They remain invisible until my white walls reveal them.

They've walked over me a thousand times. My neck feels their sting. I’ve sprayed insecticide endlessly, yet I think my life will slip away before theirs do. Every morning, I feel the heaviness of what I must face. No matter how many times I close and open my eyes, they remain.

Some dream of this; it’s a nightmare. They are everywhere. Sometimes I pretend they haven’t crossed their immense trade routes a million times, carrying items a hundred times their weight. I can’t bear the sight of it.

They hold meetings before me. As if they know, no matter how many I kill, they will remain as long as their colony is unfound.

I set baits, yet I become one. Each time I curse the holes filled with their kind, and mentally pour bleach into them, more appear.

Their colonies will never be found. I will never coexist with them. I tried to pretend they were never there, but they existed before me.

It’s like their home lives within them. They carry more than their weight because it means nothing to them. Not in comparison to what they want to provide for.

They are trailing towards my window sill. Every time I encounter them, they go about their business. Truly I shouldn't be annoyed I am the unreasonable one. Killing millions, am I not the monster?

Their bodies fall off the walls, their blood isn't painted on the white. I can smell the bitterness of their blood. 

I don't feel unburdened. It's acrid, their scent. The lemon scented insecticide, my lungs can't take. 

All I can feel is the weight of my hands. I can feel them crawl still. All over me. Every night. 

How can I forget when I have killed? What can they do but remember? 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Varuthaayi.

"വരാം," ഞാൻ പറയുമ്പോൾ, "പോകാം" എന്ന് പറയാനുള്ള ആ പേടി. My legs prickle like the seeds of a strawberry, and I feel like tearing myself apart today. I keep picking at the wound that heals every two days, only for it to break open again—blood and flesh. I feel trapped in my own skin, my body will never be what I want it to be. There are things I’m supposed to become, but time is slipping away. I applied for many things. I have sent my name into the void—eight, ten, how many more? They have to call me today. If not, I won’t be who I need to be. Tomorrow, I’ll be hopeless again. I can’t hold on to who I am, so how will time hold on to me? I eat the yellow as if it might bring some joy. One piece is thin and crispy, the bite sounds, and I feel it. The next is thick and bland—someone like me must have cut it. One is unexpectedly sweet, even though it isn’t brown like I expected. How it lies to me. I look in the mirror, I look away. Another is too salty. I eat 250 grams of ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Is It Casual Now?

There’s a line that sits between us—a hesitation that hangs in the air. Let my silence speak. It’s awkward, yes, but it’s real. Why should I feel bad for you when the hurt is mine to carry? I can see where you’re coming from, but the choice was yours. If the words were empty, why let them out? If you didn’t mean it, why not say so? Just don’t say it at all, or let me know it was never meant to hold weight. But now, I find myself asking—is this what we’ve come to? Has it all become casual, something to brush off like it was nothing? Letting things go because it’s easier than facing the truth?  If that’s the case, then maybe that line I drew wasn’t just a pause. Maybe it was a boundary, a way to protect what’s left of something real. Something that matters. Because once it’s all casual, what’s left but empty gestures and hollow promises?  I wonder if this is how it starts—when words lose their weight and actions feel more like habits than choices. When we start ignoring the smal...
Post a Comment
Read more

Where's My Present?

"True consistency isn’t about frequency—it’s about identity. It is about becoming the kind of person who does what needs to be done, no matter what." For a long time, I thought I knew what I wanted. I chased internships, opportunities, and the validation that came with them. These things were within reach, yet the more I pursued them, the more they felt disconnected from who I was.  It wasn’t that they were bad opportunities—they were, by most standards, great ones. And I wouldn't pass them up if I did get them. But they weren’t my purpose, I realize. They didn’t align with the person I wanted to become.  I had let them define so much of what I did, and in that pursuit, I lost sight of the deeper question: What do I actually want? Ironically, chasing them helped me realize that they were never my end goal to begin with.   Yet, the pressure I put on myself was unbearable. The competitiveness I internalized made failure feel worse than death itself. Fear reduced me to ...
Post a Comment
Read more