I talk to you.
I smile, I talk some more.
You say something funny.
I laugh politely.
We talk, I say something funny.
You laugh, guffaw, smile.
We grin silently at each other for a short while, creating
a
short but pleasant silence.
Underneath it all, the cockroaches are hatching.
You say something, I agree.
You go off on a tangent on what you just said.
I listen interestedly.
Hatching, in the dark and moist, squirming and slimy.
You finish talking, I nod thoughtfully.
We agree.
With a glance at your watch, you say you have to hurry, and
we'll talk some more another time.
I say yeah, i gotta go to.
We shake hands.
A growing mountain of them, pulsating little and white,
shining, slowly darkening from larval ivory to customary
brown.
Still smiling, I say I haven't slept properly in weeks.
You smile, nod understandingly, tactfully, gently trying to
withdraw your hand from mine.
I say I need something to ease the pain at nights, in the
dark.
You nod some more, mumble something about being late.
I say that's when the memories come.
Still smiling, I sob.
You remove your hand from mine in one swift stroke, backing
away, saying you'll see me sometime.
I smile and follow you, saying we should do that.
Growing, flooding, covering everything, making everything
dark.
The smell.
I stop following, you smile, turn the corner.
Running footsteps echo in your wake.
I have nowhere real to go, so I stand there under the
streetlight.
Right on cue, it rains.
I look up.
I'm crying, but no one on the street can see.
I step into an alleyway behind the streetlight, behind some
garbage cans.
I scream, but no one hears me over the din of the rain.
I double over, clear fluid escapes from between my lips
into
the puddles beneath me.
A long stream of convulsing, wriggling, yellowish
cockroaches stream out of my mouth.
Splash on the asphalt.
Not from my stomach.
From my soul.
And they keep coming, falling out in chunks around stinking
bits of rotted matter of some sort.
They splatter on the ground, slowing down as they drown in
the rainwater.
The convulsions slowly grind to a halt with a few spasms of
clear fluid.
I stay doubled over for a while, as the last of the
cockroach dies.
Slowly, the rain stops.
I straighten up, organize my disheveled appearance.
I make a mental note to apologize to you tomorrow.
I walk home knowing that I will sleep tonight.
I also know that I have flushed the cockroaches out of my
system.
But I know that the eggs still remain in there,
everywhere.
Waiting to hatch again.