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.

I am a twenty-something writer and photographer based in Florida.

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