Revulsion

I had a worm friend once.
Maybe it was one or two or three.
Their names always ended in y;
Robby, Willy, Sammy.
I made them beds of warm moss
and used twigs for the finest umbrellas.
I used to imagine them accepting luxury,
learning to live in comfort and sloth.
My friends would undoubtedly die by
the end of day full of handling.
I made them shallow graves in the
always-damp hillside by my home,
sent them off with big words
I had overheard on the car radio.
One summer I ran down the deck stairs,
barefoot, not scared of splinters.
My calloused sole felt a cold, wet mass.
A slug had been crushed in my hurry,
unnamed and wild.
I gave it no funeral.

***

Daniela Ruiz Perez is a recent graduate of the University of Maryland who spent the majority of her college years wandering her local woods while dreaming of forest sprites and trolls. After realizing that she constantly talked to herself and had a flair for the dramatic, she decided to give writing a shot. When not trying to sort out words, you can find her walking with her dog, eating soup, and always on the lookout for adventure.