A Bug’s Death
Standing, staring into the cold, white interior of the bath.
A crane fly is caught in the trickle of the tap, helpless.
One wing lifeless, the other madly flapping to no avail.
For a split second I can see through the insects eyes.
With enough conviction in my own existence to fight.
It’s wing begins to flutter faster, ever faster, ever…
BANG! I bring my hand down, all struggle ends.
I shed tears for the life, no longer in pain.
All that is left is a bloody mess on the cold white surface.
I turn the taps on full watching the remains wash away. If I were not there, it would have died.
I would not have known, and through not knowing
would not have cared, would not have cried
after all It’s just a bug.
Bugs die all the time.
Photograph by Tanguy Sauvin
Hire An Editor