Floorboards

the bugs beneath my floorboards flush through the cracks— i think they can feel the pressure from underneath my feet. something about the way i press down and lean forward—perhaps the squeaks from the  wood creaking is far too loud or maybe they can feel how tense i am. when i’m tense i pace and when i pace my feet collide with the ground.

maybe they can feel how discontentment fills the gaps between my hands as it glides against the chest of men who won’t return and quite honestly i convince myself that i want them too in likeness to how my mother lies through her teeth while expressing gratitude for her life and choices. perhaps the bugs underneath my floorboard feel the pressure of my sighs as confused men  make an example of me but curious lips, thoughts, and empty gestures do not escape me.

do the bugs in my floorboards hear the news? they’re talking about me again. maybe the bugs on the street coated in dirt hear the passing conversations of strangers discuss the way my body strikes fear but the only fear i’ve felt is when i look in the mirror and see pieces of myself that don’t represent the outlines in my head— i must be confused on who should be scared of what— maybe the way i choose to love that strikes with a firm blow makes men fear me and government despise this unknown language.

maybe i am the bugs in the floorboard, or maybe my body is already carcass and i am but a reflection of what the bugs in the empty sockets where my eyes used to be want me to see. a reflection of what is already to come, a historical repeat. maybe the bugs in floorboard can feel the pressure from underneath my feet.

maybe..

maybe..