A bullseye rash spreading on the scalp of a prom queen adorned with roses and Lyme disease.

Ticks clinging to the belly fur of a Siberian husky.

Trapped in our lungs, viral particles that T-cells cannot identify.

My aunt on the day she passed away.

Not even a single kind word.

The moments I attempted to assist her but was unsure of what to do.

A layer of radioactive dust settling on an eye many years after a nuclear accident.

Skin pierced by a rat’s tooth while an entire family slept.

Something gathering there.

Interplanetary rumors.

The publication you were denied for the third consecutive year.

Tainted by a comma splice, a rejected job application letter.

The only native marsupial in New York wandering in your neighbor’s yard.

A woman burdening her pockets with stones as she walks towards the river.

The sensation when passing a beggar who shakes his cup.

Reaching inside, finding no spare change.