Run

I watched it for fifteen minutes,
black beetle on the edge of a desk,
shell edged in red,
antenna trembling,
trying to take stock of its surroundings
and failing,
flailing,
never getting anywhere.

I didn't give it a chance to run
before I crushed it under my shoe.
I held nothing against it but existence,
and even I got a chance at that.

I spend my days living a routine—
an endless spiral
both familiar and foreign in its consistency.
I can neither fly away
nor find my way to solid ground,
so this is where I have stayed.

I have to get out,
run while I can,
or I'll be crushed before I've gone anywhere.