The cockroach in the bathroom is aware,
how I could not tell you, of my presence,
its need to escape is dire, it rushes
switchback to flee my foot, its weight to bear.
Pressure from above crushes down below,
as a tank over a corpse, a death sentence,
instantaneous loss of life, gushes
neurologically through my synapses.
Worry gets the better of me, the stress
emits a sound like mites biting at times.
Frustration at the world begins to show,
even if I could tidy up this mess,
even if I don't commit any crimes,
little helps me when my judgment lapses.
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