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.