The bugs under my shoes screamed and so. did. I.

<3

The ugly little bugs screamed and so did I.
So did I.
Flapping their rust-coloured, foliage wings they whispered their protest in screeching mundanity or so the world thinks.
Their whisper's a storm but a storm is only feared when it touches the delicate cocoons.

Visceral. Every breath is visceral. Their claws are clipped. Their bodies are battered. They hop under the lonely lights but never under the warm sunlight.

The pretty little butterfly once flapped her wings in distress. The sympathetic eyes cooed and awed. The sunlight filtered through her glass painted wings and fell onto the ground like broken glasses. The pieces were jagged for the ugly bugs. Drawing blood. drawing nothing.

They cry. They scream. They weep. They crawl. But it doesn't matter now—they are under my shoes. No sympathetic gazes. No "no's".

As I rock myself to sleep, I wonder, how does the moon scream?
How does the moon scream?
Who are you without sun?
Who are you without sun.

The bugs under my shoes screamed and so. did. I. so. did. I.