Heavy hands and heavy hearts

It isn’t like a new day or spring flowers
it was like the eight spiders you swallow in a lifetime
Inside you before you know it
It was like the cockroaches in your kitchen
Apparent in the night, crawling from their secret home
Signaling it is time, to clean your house
It is like the sudden fly on your hand
Swatted away on reflex
You can chase after it
But it won’t land again
Unless you sit perfectly still, waiting
But not waiting for it

And why would you want something that crawls and creeps
That scatters and dashes
Something so infectious
That may have wings but will never be angelic
Something so ugly you will never call it beautiful
But you call it beautiful
And celebrate the bite marks, the stings
The raised skin, the blood rush
the itch that cannot be calmed
No matter how long you let your nails grow
No matter how much you let yourself go
It won’t matter anyway