the dying roaches lying upside down send messages to their families.
their antennae tap the floor like the top few hairs on a father's head blowing in a cold wind.
"I'm not coming home tonight or any other night," they send as they rest stuck on their backs.
running through the memories of their lives, they wait. ignoring the sound of other little feet crawling to feed off of their helpless, decaying bodies.
they ask for forgiveness as their legs are spread apart, as their bellies are chewed open, as the blood leaves their heads.
their final words are spoken.
