i am tired of writing about you
instead of writing back. but my fear and
hope fight like werewolves, each howling

to the same moon, afraid to brave the
woods alone. for the woods i grew up in were

unreliable. they transformed under the afternoon
thunderstorms into mud hills, coated with
slick leaves until the dead of january. they hummed with
a thousand mosquitos every other
season, i used to douse my skin and clothes
in so much deet i’d smell it
for days afterward.

and i always left those woods
hands in my hair, searching for ticks. so sure
the things that would eat me alive were
camped out on my skull instead of
inside it. this may i saw one for
the first time, writhing on the blanket
my partner and i dragged outside during
our trip. it was beautiful until
my brain sent the warning alert and then
it was disgusting. that fragile admiration, gone

in an instant. is that what we’ve
become? parents are not heroes, but simply parasitic
arachnids that must feed themselves by
siphoning from those around them? how can i place
blame on a creature that doesn’t
know better? i kicked

the tick off the blanket, shook it out, ran
inside the cabin and stripped down
to my underwear. and when i didn’t find
the bumps, i let out a breath and forgot
about all you’d put me through until it started

crawling through my dreams.

kieran fu is an east coaster turned chicagoan who thrives outside of boxes. a certified nostalgic and double cancer sign, they write about the murky waters surrounding love and belonging, hoping to one day improve their swimming skills. you can find their work in Querencia Press, Y2K Quarterly, Oyster River Pages, and others.