this wouldn't happen if i was a slug

i want a good wet place to feel sorry for myself.
give me the musty damp leaves & the handprint
of a late october rain. this time of year
the slugs around our house are feral.
they start writing prophecies all up the side
of the house. once i saw my name & i tried
to figure out which creature knew me. i never
located them. instead, i took my name off
& beat it in front of the house like a dusty rug.
i have a lot of regrets. my biggest one is probably
that i let myself return to this earth 
as a human. maybe when we were slugs
you were gentler to me. maybe i felt real
& whole & alive. i love you but sometimes
you make me crave being soft & limbless.
dragging myself across the world's hairy tongue.
i make so many bad choices for myself
that i'm not even sure which would make sense
to roll back at this point. the house. the yard.
the birds. sometimes i hear a voice 
from the trees the line the edge 
of the corn field. last night i almost followed it.
was convinced i would finally catch
the slugs talking. planning out their master pieces.
i could then maybe ask to join them.
lay my down sticky & wild. a life without
the pressure to be a little man. the slugs reject gender
& embrace the laughter of the stars at night.