There is an insect crawling up your spine,
I’m sorry for your soft whispers.
Promise it just wants to explore the depths of your vertebrae; spindly legs crave to trace the patterns there. I swear it means no harm, it’s yearning to hide in your veins, your blood, in shadows cast by bones through skin. Antennae reach out to mould themselves round the curve of your shape; insects pine to lie there.
Fingertips scratch spines, insects stroke spines.