I still think about the flies
they are obsessed with my skin
I taste like honey or rot
if this body is walking decomposition
they know something I’ve forgotten
about being black and moving quickly
they bullet around a room gravitating
toward me hungry as a gun itself
the whole world can relate to wanting
to consume a body like mine
in small pieces my flies are proper
keepers of my living waste
they swarm in my bedroom
I cannot keep count of them
they kiss me in my sleep
when a fly lands it vomits
I am covered in sugar and bile
at least i am covered
my flies are trying to save me
from a tasteless death by
consuming me before a war does
I hunt flies for being black
they’re fast and buzzing too loudly
they kiss me in my sleep
I crush flies against dirty glass next to
severed legs of other stupid flies who
believed freedom was external
they speed toward closed windows
they are hungry for the sweat on my legs
they chase death on delicate feet
I can’t name all the things that want
to hurt me today so the flies rub
their wings together and hum