{Father, our love can be described in the dead shell of a cicada—
empty insect eyes,
splintering backbone,
missing legs, and
all.}

1. The Dead Eyes (devoid of new visions, they exist only by remembering the past)

When I was a child, you and I were two broken soldiers marching through the woods. I didn’t understand what it meant to be morbid, so when we found the tomb of an insect, I attached hairy amber claws onto the back of your plaid shirt, and said, ‘His name is Freddie.’ You supported his shattered skeleton on your own imperfect shoulder. When you laughed, I knew dead insects were nothing to be afraid of.

2. The Thorax (what’s at the center of it all)

Now that I am not a child, now that you are no longer here, Freddie’s insect claws are rigor mortis stiff as they clutch at empty space. I know that frozen feeling. Not so long ago, I dreamt my own hands turned to claws, my own fraying fingers curled inward upon themselves, my mouth clogged with blood, so much blood my shriek couldn’t worm through the thickness, and the only voice you, Father, could hear was the fiend buried within my ribcage. I don’t feel that demon any more, but sometimes, I think that’s why you can’t hear me, my voice smothered still beneath his imaginary howl.

3. The Scars From Breaking Free (and how much they should matter)

Sometimes, Father, I don’t know who I am addressing: you, or The Insect.
Did it hurt him, when he split out of his skin? Did he discard any tears over the yawning gash that was once his home? Oh, Freddie. Oh, Insect. Did you ever crawl back to what used to be home, just to see what had become of it?

{Once
it was something living. Now
it is dead and waiting
to be crushed or
eaten by birds. The thing about a dead
cicada shell is, it looks
so dangerous. But
it is the most fragile thing in
this world.}