Sadness as Told By a House Fly

Day 1:

The half-eaten PB&J oozing

jelly on her nightstand

intrigued me, but the

smell of unwashed socks and

sweaty yoga pants kept

me here.


Day 6:

I buzz by her face every so often

to see if she’s still breathing. She

doesn’t swat me away, or mind

when I land on her arms.


Day 9:

The ants on her desk ask why

stay when I have wings. I tell 

them the stale crackers and 

greening burritos are

my favorite. 


Day 15:

Sometimes, I sit on the ceiling

and watch her sleepwalk in and

out of the room. I’m not sure 

what she’s looking for, but I have a 

feeling that it’s long gone.


Day 17:

She finally showered. But the

citrus smell isn’t as strong as 

the  spoiled yogurt cups

in her trash,

I’m glad.


Day 23,

My body is weak, and can’t fly

out the mush and mold

of jelly. I think we made eye 

contact a few times.

She looks at me and sighs.


Day 24,

She got out of bed before 5pm

today. She was holding a rolled up

US magazine—


This poem is about: 


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