i killed two moths with a thesaurus open to synonyms for sorry but i’m not sorry, i’m never sorry.
they were soft yellow brown like the walls of the house i am leaving behind.
i lie face down on the bed un-moving, un-loving, and i wonder if you would be mad at me for killing them. their little bodies are stuck like matchsticks to the wall with greenish goop. i’m filled up with guilt, you put it in me. i warned them it was their time to go but i was lying and really deepdown under all this dirt and all these bleeding bugbites i am apologetic,
i brush them off the wall and into the corner and today as i pack everything away and go to vacuum them up they are nowhere to be found, resurrections that picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and flew away.