The dirt like splotch that runs and hides.
I pray to God it does not stain my sheets.
I stomp it and sob.
The inch like thing takes my crumbs.
It visits me while conscious yet in paralysis,
and harshens my lungs– Incubi in pest form.
I think I would prefer it if it slithered or crawled,
so long as my bathtub is clear and shined.
I stomp the inch like thing and sob.
On their backs, no noise,
but perhaps, a silent whimper.
My cries are louder and my gratitude lacks
for a creature that taints my sanctuary and habitat.