Ode to the Flying Cockroach in My Room

I envy you your simplicity.

Photo by Erik Karits on Unsplash

You don’t know what I’ve been through this year, Cocky.

Waking up in a cold sweat at six in the morning, I came out to wash the angst off my face and there you were.

You sauntered into my bedroom like a billionaire onto his beachfront balcony and decided to fuck around, even though you had the whole house for a playground.

I pleaded with you, cajoled you, guided you, begged you, yet you fluttered around amongst my clothes and my bedsheets like a merciless fiend staking out its newly conquered territory.

Now I don’t know where you are, but I know you lie in wait to pounce the moment I let down my guard.

I wait in exile upon the couch, wondering how I can reclaim my kingdom.

Alas, sickness, both mental and physical, has overwhelmed me.

Diarrhea, chills, anxiety, listlessness, hopelessness, despair.

My only sanctuary is the occasional wave of indifference.

But there’s no peace to be found since you jangled my already wracked nerves.

You don’t know the world you inhabit this year, Cocky.

The humans have literally lost their minds.