Shae Pant
THERE’S A FLY IN MY RIBCAGE AND IT KNOWS MY NAME
Everyone has noise inside them.
If you’re lucky, it sounds like love.
Mine sounds like wings hitting bone.
The fly isn’t cruel—just curious.
Little journalist with compound eyes,
getting the story right for once.
I want to be gracious about it.
Let it feed on whatever it needs.
Someone has to make use of me.
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