from landing on the ceiling. They are there, black

dots indiscernible from a short distance. Apple cider

vinegar clogs my nostrils the way erythromycin is

supposed to and I have thrice begged the cat to live

out her nature. These insects haunt the way ghosts

are supposed to.

Once I purchased molding fruit and couldn’t bring

myself to send them back. It is not the fruit’s fault

it was forgotten. I think of so many times I’ve re

placed perfect fruit and it hurts to know I am re

garded in the same way as produce. A giant plucks

me from a branch, drops

me to the ground and my bones crunch

from my body, femurs and fingertips and bones

I don’t know the names of and though I am use

less now, shameful now, the twines of my once

pink muscles eroded, I know that even though I

am unwanted, the fruit flies

will find a way to me. They will land gently on

my swollen skin as though I am a red ruby

grapefruit and they will wait until movement begs

them to do otherwise. Giant, I pray forgiveness

these bugs I’ve sent away, and still, if given the

chance, I’d smash those bare black bodies without

a moment’s hesitation.