The only living things I kill are flies
and ants and other bugs I find within
my house, that whine in ears or bite my skin.
And as I tissue-hasten their demise,
I think a slight apology. My sighs
are small – for sure my act was not a sin,
but ended life that happened to begin
a bit too close to where my comfort lies.

And then I think how fortunate I am
to not be born a bug. How likely was
existence any way? How lucky I,
alive but not an oyster, not a clam,
and not a creature bound to flit and buzz.
I’ll count me apex-glad until I die.

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