Shell

There's a graveyard of Box Elder bugs
on the stretch to the library.
40, 50 of their little bodies,
red, black bruises in the sidewalk,
the paint stains on my fingertips.

You made me afraid to kill bugs
to destroy
You made me feel guilty
my face red, hot,
A fire under the skin.
Your hands
cold bones
crushing weight
wrapping tight around my neck,
A prison.


Their carcasses line up along the concrete
and I follow them,
crunch,
smooth cracked shells
and flimsy wax wings
crunch,
I think of your face,
the fear in your eyes
crunch,
I think of your slender fingers,
your chapped and smirking lips,
your clouded heart,
under my airy footsteps that stomp as hard as they can
crunch

I am not afraid.