The flick of your wrist
looks druidic, a ritual
to dispel black invertebrates
that whizz past your ears,
buzzing about miserable things
you pretend not to hear.
They treat themselves to salty
emotions secreting through your sweat
and tears. Sangria is sweeter, it oozes
from wounds in your tough exterior.

One fly squeezes up the hairy
nasal cave to your brain.
It savours the protein-rich
mucus and nestles its progeny
in the trenches of your memory.
For an entrée, the larvae nibble
on your first kiss, then feast
on long-lost friends for dinner.
Dreams of being a musician dribble
down their chins. Their chewing rattles
your cranium like a machine gun.
They graze on stray thoughts –
shopping lists, birthdays, names
of trees – one by one, until
your mind is Swiss cheese. They leave
behind only the crumbs of your insecurity.

When you sleep, fully-grown flies
crawl out your nose, and swarms
of thoughts come roaring back, fatter
and louder than before, darting
black bullets that you can’t dismiss
with a flick of your wrist.