a poem about the mongolian death worm
“what is the difference between being a worm who is accepting of loneliness
and being an independent worm”
the mongolian death worm thought
laying on a bare twin-sized mattress
set directly on the floor
40 feet underground
it ate maybe 5mg of adderall
and moved its bed to look for it’s missing e-cigarette
it leaves its burrow to smoke a cigarette
it wishes its entire life’s purpose was to watch cooking shows all day
outside the burrow there stands a man
“I’ve come for you death worm!” the man says
he has a trident, a large heavy-duty garbage bag, and a shop-vac
“this is making me nervous”
“I’m going to kill you”
“you’re ruining my night”
“soon you’ll be dead, I’m serious, I’ve sworn to kill your kind”
“you’re a racist”
“I'm not racist”
“you are killing worms for being worms, that is racism”
“no it isn't, you’re all monsters”
“that’s racial stereotyping”
“hey asshole, I'm a human, I'm better than you”
“you’re a fucking racist”
“your days are done”
“my days are fucking awesome”
the mongollian death worm pulls out a gun and shoots the man in the belly
he falls to his knees
using the trident to hold himself up slightly
“you shot me asshole, that’s unfair, you used a gun, you’re supposed to use your venom”
“soon you’ll be dead, and I'll eat your eyes and crawl through your brain”
the man throws the trident at the death worm but misses and collapses
the death worm puts the man inside the large heavy-duty garbage bag
takes the shop-vac and puts the tube in the garbage bag and turns it on
it watches the bag curve around the man’s hands and mouth
it pulls out its phone and records the sounds of the man suffocating
it will listen to the recording at night when it’s alone and crying in bed
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