Little Insects


She, the wasp that could glide
The butterfly with frock-like wings

Drawn like a moth to a flame
To a cockroach lurking

In her heart. Her cheeks blushed
And pimpled like bite marks

Of bed bugs. She hung on
Like a flea to his flesh and milked

The sap like an aphid. The waggle
Dance told a story of thorax

And abdomen. Bee stung, she climbed
Out and flew away like a mosquito

After a blood meal, burning in afterglow
As a luminescent firefly

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