a moment to quiet thought

the grasp of a centipede bites through layers of skin

it burrows

it nests

an arthropod should not be bound by attachment 

it’s teeth burrow between my dermis, sprouting roots within my weathered veins 

a tug of reality, the centipede is maddeningly hungry 

from the rotting remains of my decaying corpse, the centipede shall sprout flowers, and with that sentiment; i am the centipede itself