I’ve never understood why people are so disgusted

by silverfish.

I like the little guys.

They way they scurry around from place to place,

they’ve always got somewhere to be,

perhaps because they don’t like where they are.

I know the feeling.

I live in my parent’s attic

where a surplus of silverfish reside in the walls.

Occasionally emerging from the chipping paint,

as if to check up on me

and make sure I’m still okay

I wonder if they like my music.

If they can feel it vibrate through the walls

and hum along to the rhythm.

I wonder if they get annoyed that I watch the same shows

over and over again,

and if they’ve already memorized every second

like I have.

I wonder if they like watching me

the same way I like watching them.

If instead of trips to the zoo they observe me

pacing nervously in my room,

like a tiger paces his cage.

Or if instead of trips to the museum

they watch me sit motionless and stone-faced on the floor

as my brain goes dormant,

and I transform into a lifeless statue.

Or if they watch me build skyscrapers out of

old pizza boxes and solo cups.

Or if they place bets over when I will finally

change out of these clothes.

Or if they try to forecast my unpredictable sleeping patterns

like the weather.

Or if they burst into celebration

whenever I finally stop talking to myself.

I wonder if they’re tired of me yet.

But perhaps,

they’re holding out on some hope for me.

Why else would they have stuck around this long?

Maybe they’re just glad I haven’t killed them yet.

Maybe they’re just silverfish.