The Ants That Got Away

Ants. On your boots, and by your soup, and on your blue-lit screen. Pesky things. They have so many legs, and they’re freakishly strong. And to their size, I’m sure their bionic legs reverberate the tune to some kind of nasty, hypnotic march. Like tickling atop your now-blonde hair, their dancing pattern cools skin to roughen targeted human terrain.

So many. I have them too. On the floor. Testing poison. I feel their peppermint in my chest, running against the beat of my own heart. And through my veins too. And up and down my spine, up and down my spine. The heated dance, their menthol-oiled feet. The anxiety of not knowing where to next. No amount of chemical makeup, or mixed sugar, has cured the ants that have infuriated their way to my core. I think they’ve always been there and I’ve never really been alone.

I’ve tried trapping them under a plastic container once, and got scared. I left a sticky note for my friends, and while the ant’s new home is now built inside Dyson’s dusty backyard, the mint-stained container remained untouched for days. Try as I might, I still feel the ants that got away. Container, oil, chemical-altering poison, ignorance. I still feel the ants that got away.