Some days, there are more flies than others.Sometimes, I notice. Other times, theytrace my legs politely and without disturbing.Some days, my body is startled by depression
before my brain can say its name. I sleep longerI eat too much only once in 72 hours. The voicescollect in hives in corners of my brain I can’t reach.I don’t shower. I collect all my sweat and dead
skin and that is how I keep myself. The flies feedon my lonely. I only notice the company, neverthe feast that grief makes. I cook the best mealswhen I feel the most empty and still I don’t
consume them, just set the table, decorate thedining room for flies so they will leave. I drinkto stop the residual buzzing, so the throbbingquells. Nothing dissipates a hum like hunger
and dry heaving. Some days, the flies collectbeside my pillow and resemble a lover, cast anindent in the mattress. I am tickled by their company.I reach for them. They scatter.