tuesday

today i killed a tiny bug the likes of which i’d never seen before as it crawled aimlessly on the parched sheets of my journal.

its body was lighter than the breeze and colored orange; yet, despite its unequivocal lightness, it was imperturbed by the breeze or the heavy breaths i exhaled as part of several attempts to clear it from the page.

it occurred to me only after the bug’s death how beautiful the day was, how the wind sang in my ears like the numerous birds hidden in the giant oaks, how the nearby traffic sounded more like a tranquil stream than passing cars, and how the dusty scrape of leaves on cement seemed like the echo of footsteps belonging to those who have been here before me.

only after the bug’s death did i think of how nature filled the tiny cup of my body, how it swelled in me and burst forth in an immense appreciation for life. and i thought of how the day must have affected the bug, whose small, delicate body might have been more susceptible to it than the cavernous depths of my own.

i killed the bug rather violently and it instantly became liquid and minuscule fibers. i thrashed at it until the last of its existence disappeared like the birdsong on the clear wind.

the sun came out then and illumined my guilt. i felt the wind pick up and feared that today might be the day that god wiped me clean from the pages of his draft. i held my guilt in the quiet discomfort of my heart and clung desperately to the pages.

quickly, i buried my shame beneath the stones of a nearby creek bed and crept away through the high, fragrant weeds.

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