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Burning on filthy subway walls

Jerking back, muttering “it’s too bright,”

Train coming, train coming

A long silver bullet blasting through the blackness of the ancient tunnel

More ads inside

Then screaming, bolting up from the seat

Ignoring your unwilling audience as you run from the train

Through the toll-taker and up the escalator

Howling now, running down the sidewalks

Then home, into the bathroom

Lifting the lid and spilling waste from your stomach into the bowl

The bathroom lights observing and judging

What are they saying?

Then, a dark bedroom

The moon shining on the floor

Into bed, shuddering and moaning

Paroxysms of rage and frustration

Tearing at you from the inside

Sweating and gasping

Fingers tearing at you like knives

Shouting, howling, shrieking

Jerking and gyrating, covering your face

Then, they sting

Black and yellow, enormous eyes

THEY STING THEY STING THEY STING

THEY STING THEY STING THEY STING

THEY STING AND STING AND STING

But he doesn’t.

He bites.

And they don’t sting anymore.

This is Theo Luce’s first published poem.

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