The Cockroaches

One night, a lonely cockroach stumbled into my room.
I looked at it, I fell to the floor, and sentenced it to die.
It buzzed around my lamp, innocent.
I gazed with unblinking eyes.

It hit the wall, stuck fast.
I thought, Now is my chance.
I grabbed a book, slammed it against the wall, missed once.
Slammed it again, missed twice.
I approached closer, and with one jerk of a muscle, the wall gave out a loud cry, cockroach heading towards the ground.

A picture on my wall fell along with it,
hitting the floor, shading the corpse.
I was satisfied.

Few nights pass, and then came another.
Landed on my notebook, I backed away slowly, tripping over my backpack.
Crawled upon the glowing white, antennae flicking rapidly,
golden sheen of it's translucent wings reflecting the bulb.

I once again, demanded death for it.
I got up, got a book, slammed it on the table.
Didn't miss, but it survived, one wing twisted near it's head.
I fanned it to the ground, and then to the picture that fell a few nights before,
sat it on the opposite side of the one already dead.

One was in the light, one was in the dark.

A few minutes pass.

A few more.

I look down at the picture, to see one of them has gone.

I think, forget about it, It'll die later.

A few minutes pass.

I look behind the picture.

There lay Two Cockroaches, side-by-side,
resting in peace.

"If I can't die with you, I'll die next to you."