A person must not get too close— you're a crush, bright with infatuated attraction, and we are the most disgusting moths. The ones that die first out of weakness and lay crumbling like old bones
We are Japanese Oak-Silk Hairy tree trunks with willow antennas “Hear me roar,” we all say the overused thought aloud Each whispering it in the curve of your ear all the while not knowing one of our own species from another.
We crowd you, don't we? Our six little legs climb your cream-colored lampshade And our little goblin hands suffocate you You are his crush, and hers too.
The whole clan lands on your bulb kisses it, crawls and snuggles up against it. Gallons of moths surround you fly around you Pestering... Pestering
Pestering—pestering.
You shine back at us, pig. We all bump into each other because you shine on us, you blind us.