to be a moth

i enter, overlooked per usual.

casting shadows on the wall,

bruising the magnolia paint

now to much of your disdain.

i'd do anything to have you notice

but all i can is flutter

stupidly, drunkenly,

under the running ceiling fan

as you complain of my pest -

more virus than butterfly.

more dust than flesh.

still, let me gravitate to your light,

and choose to burn before i fall.

in this darkness,

let me eat your sweaters.

​

- R