two gods kneeling in the dirt

killing bugs is romantic, actually

when i was 6 or 7, i was not a lonely kid, but i did enjoy exploring outdoors alone, and my parents i guess had just started fighting so i had pretty good reason to escape the house. one summer, i came across a massive set of anthills (3!) in a crack in the sidewalk. i crouched down to inspect. these were bigger ants, black and peaceful, and an unfortunate caterpillar was crawling nearby, so i picked it up and placed it by the crack to see if the ants would take notice. they did not.

the caterpillar kept crawling away, so i took a rock and crushed its head so it would stop moving. then i placed it back by the anthill, hoping the ants would swarm. again, they did not. frustrated, i took a stick and ripped it through the crack in the sidewalk, spewing up dirt and exposing the depths of the hive to open air. out flooded thousands and thousands of furious ants, pouring onto the concrete, prepared to demolish the enemy, only to find one decapitated little baby butterfly who received the full force of their frenzy. i watched from a safe distance, satisfied, as they dragged its chubby green lifeless body into the gaping maw in the ground. then i left to play pokemon or something.

when you were a kid, you used to rip the legs off of grasshoppers. you’d catch them in your hands - large and green; small and brown - and separate the instrument from the body with what i imagine must have been childish glee. and when the dark blood poured over your palms, you screamed that it was ‘pooping on you’ and flung the bug away in disgust.

when you told me, i felt kinship. i told you about the caterpillar and the ants, and also about the daddy long legs, how i would rip off their legs, all eight, or perhaps just every other leg, or, if i were feeling merciful, how i sawed their legs in half with rocks and released them, shortened, back into the wild.

when you told me about the grasshoppers, you finally made sense to me. i finally understood why you were so intent on ‘figuring me out’. you were a little monster, just like me. and given the chance you would rip off my legs and i would saw yours in half, and we would cut each other open to see if we bled the same color and our organs lay in the same places and the folds of our brains traced the same slimy outlines, if we had the same sick, inoperable lesions. i’d let u poke and prod around. i’d explore your insides too.

we may never meet again. but if we do, it will be as kids — two children kneeling in the dirt. hands cupped, hunting. foraging for treasure, for prisoners, for victims, fresh blood for two cruel and merciful gods, two kids too young to know any better.

Dali, 1929