Nights when it's warm
and no one is watching,
I walk to the edge
of the road and stare
at all the fireflies.
I squint and pretend
they're hallucinations,
bright made-up waves
of the brain.
I call them,
field bling.
I call them,
fancy creepies.
It's been a long time
since I've wanted to die,
it makes me feel
like taking off
my skin suit
and seeing how
my light flies all
on its own, neon
and bouncy like a
wannabe star.