A tiny bug died on my hand.
I don’t know if toxins in my skin killed it
or if it landed their to expire
but I looked at my hand and there it was—dead;
like when you obliviously cut yourself
and not until you discover the crimson streak across the front of your khakis
do you realize
that you’re bleeding,
then you look for the slit, find it
and the pain sets in
reconnecting with the nerves in your brain letting you in on the truth.