Every so often, I feel like there are centipedes in my gut.
Creeping and crawling, wriggling and squirming.
And every so often, but
probably more so than that,
they’re ripping and tearing and worming about
And there are roaches in my skin
telling me to wash it all away,
as I curl up to silence the din
of ever present reminders.
A pat on the back, a familiar face seen today.
On my feet there are bees.
Bees telling me to go and run and flee.
To run and run away until my knees
fall apart and turn to dust.
But from this, I will never be free.
Upon my brain there sits a leech,
devouring every word that could be said.
Every one to help, and each
could have saved me
from what now keeps me trapped here in my bed
Wishing we had never first spoken.
Wishing I hadn’t been left,
been left tired and broken
like a bug crushed underfoot.
Elizabeth Florez, ’27