There is a baby cockroach floating
in my bathwater, passing by my toes.
Pear-shaped dark with that little fleck
of gold on its back.
There is no mistaking that shape.
Plunging into the downward pour
you tumble and rise again to the surface,
your carcass clinging to a volcanic mound of bubbles.
You have ruined everything.
You are that thing between me and
the life I should have if we weren’t so shit-poor.
You are that thing no one talks about
and everyone denies.
You that hides in the walls or
creeps in on paper grocery bags
you come in on boxes of donation food
you come in with the dog food bags
you come in somehow
you come in
you, always you. I kill you
and you never seem to go away.
you that fell from the ceiling
when I was a child
you that crawled and
creeped and bore my shame
upon your outer shell
like sick crowning glory
you, white to black to brown
you that eats your own
you, vile, in my bathwater
Christina Ward 🌼 2019