Update on the silkworm

The silkworm collects rocks and minerals. Each month, they reorganize all of them in a small wooden display case in their bedroom.

The silkworm worries that sadness follows them.

They’re sure that death does.

The silkworm tugs at the soft skin above their belt.

The silkworm dreams about mirrors.

The silkworm drinks lychee martinis whenever they’re on the menu. Not because they taste good, but because the silkworm believes that it makes them seem sexy and mature––especially when served in a traditional martini glass.

The silkworm answers the phone on the third ring. No sooner.

One third of the silkworm’s biweekly grocery budget is reserved for Max.

The silkworm knows that Max is aging––they can see it in his face. His whiskers are thinning and his fur has shifted from a blue-gray to an ashy white. The silkworm worries that if they talk about this in the apartment, Max will hear.

The silkworm believes that a thrifted mirror is much more sacred than one that is new. They believe this about all material items, actually.

The silkworm doesn’t smoke anymore.

Until they do. And they will.

The silkworm owns eleven mirrors. They hope to double this number by the end of the year.

The silkworm tries to stay. Sometimes they do. On those days, the silkworm sits alone in quiet stillness and daydreams about running.

The silkworm wants to die by the river, tucked beneath the guardian turtle tree.

They’d like to live there too, but running is easier than returning.

The silkworm tries to visit their dad’s grave once a year. They bring a stone and one living thing to leave behind.