It’s a little beetle in my brain.
Generally irrelevant, unnoticeable, unimpactful
But sometimes it scuttles out.
The fist comes down hard and the beetle is crushed.
The crunch under my hand is oddly satisfying
There is no blood as such, more of a sticky residue.
You think that by crushing the beetle it will be gone
But the sticky stuff, it’s hard to get rid off.
Somehow it ends up everywhere.
Your hands, your skin, your clothes, your heart, your head.