the problem by hil hoover

The problem at the center of the whole thing is that I love bugs. I adore the mealworm colony my entomologist housemate keeps in a tupperware on the kitchen counter. I love the tiny spiders whose webs hang from the gate and the many types of beetles with their jewel-like shells. One night, we put on headlamps to shine on the back yard, so we could catch the glint of the many eyes in the grass.

I gently move outside rather than crush, whenever I can.

The problem at the center of the whole thing is that I have no desire to kill.

Despite the childhood trauma of cockroaches from the caves beneath Granny’s house appearing in my bath, a half-drunk can of Coke, every fiber of the carpet in my father’s den. Despite the fire ants that invaded my undergarments when I meditated in the wrong place. Despite the moth removed from my ear that sometimes still haunts me, a phantom fluttering. Despite the bedbugs of drug dens, the school-acquired lice, the wiggly rice and the wormy apples. The hospital trip for my mother’s bee sting. The hospital trip for my spider bite. The many, many hospital trips.

The problem at the center of the whole thing is - 

That I can feel them, the whatever-they-are, the tiny creatures that crawl beneath my skin, burrow within me, eat at my fat and muscle and organs alike. Even in places that I was pretty sure didn’t have nerves, they have alerted me to their presence with their incessant movement, their merciless march inward.

And all I can think is how much I wish that I could break myself open to get a glimpse of the beautiful kingdom they are building within.

Because I, despite everything, love bugs.