Bugs (Poem)

Standing. 

In the middle of the road,

Catching a cold,

Cars going through me. 

They are crawling up on my neck.

I lift a ghost hand infront of myself.

Nothing.

Empty space. 

Looking around, life seems busy. 

They are going under my skin.

A tree is breathing in the bus stop. 

Chest lifting,

Falling.

Lifting,

Falling.

Bugs' little legs brushing my flesh.

Trees are the earth lungs, 

but they shouldn't have lungs themselves...

Is this even real anymore? 

The bugs are eating. 

The cars seems to get faster.

To reach their destination.

Leaving my alone,

Infront of the breathing tree. 

They are eating from my skin.

My flesh.

My nerves.

My veins.

Looking at the tree, i start to lose my sense of reality. 

The bugs' crawling are too much.

TOO. MUCH. 

I rip off the skin on my arm,

Sweating cold,

To look at the bugs under my skin,

But all i seen was blood leaking.

Red, like the truck what's light blinded me,

Before i could release a relieved breath. 

Crush.