neon walking stick

there is no way to tell what is a bug
& isn't a bug anymore. sometimes my
"open" sign will turn to stick bugs 
& i'll have to sell my eyes on ebay again
for a new chance at less panic.
someone pulls the fire alarm 
in the attic & all the horses climb
the stairs. the first time i was paranoid
i think was when i was eight.
the babysitter could hear my thoughts
about becoming a heron & so 
i filled my ears with legos. 
she screamed & i screamed & i hear
nothing for years. the buildings 
that have grown inside me like
little temples. i worship that space
between manias. the breaths of 
moss & yarrow. the "open" sign
walks until it pulses & says,
"goodbye." i know the bugs are
just playing with me. i count them 
in the bathroom & on my face
& in the bed. dear god, i plead with them
to just go & live in the wild green yard.
instead, they expand. street light bugs
& change purse bugs & even bugs
who know the truth about 
how i tried to run away 
& live beneath the roller-skating rink.
sometimes i am grateful that
i see everything & other times 
i want to just be like the paper moths:
flying & spitting dust on the walls. 
nothing is fair but especially
not insects. they come. march 
in a line. make a necklace on the wall.
please tell me you see them too.