You are melting into the windshield,
a single bug the wipers hit,
and I never loved you: no, I could
not have desired something like this.

Your flesh does not resemble a
body, nor a human, nor any being I
have felt compassion for somehow.

And your words are jumbled like
lyrics repeated out of tune. I do not
know you, bug, I do not love you.

I have noticed that you do not bleed,
although your murmurs are pained
of a pink sort of memory
from your live, a single human day.

Some witch, blocks of lavender
and spice and bricks, will pick you:
she will grant a single human wish.

May she find some use of you,
the single bug I have slaughtered so,
but recall that when I killed you,
you were something I did not know.