It was only one—
until it was two,
until it was seven,
until it wasn’t.

More pests making noise upstairs,
finding new hiding places.

It itches— is it a bite?
I can’t reach it.
I woke up with it.
A chip in my brain?
I can’t feel it, but there’s an itch.

Stay calm, remember?
One eye open, one eye shut.
Do as the Romans do.

The doctor has seen far worse—
I can tell by her callous smile.
She’ll never find them.
It’s already too late.

My brain is not my own.
It’s tangled snakes in mating season.

Don’t make a scene.
Don’t scream.