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.