The Worm

Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Would you still love me if I couldn't hug you? Or provide for you? Or kiss you?

If I couldn't ask you how your day was, would you still tell me about it?

If the meaning you found in me was a memory, would you be sentimental enough to hold on to me?

Or would I go in the goodwill pile, in a trash bag, with a shirt from summer camp all those years ago?

Kafka wrote of a man becoming a bug and all his family slowly hiding him and shutting him away.

Until the bug in question crawled out the window, into the woods.

No middle ground met, no attempts of new care made, no humanity for the formerly human. No unconditional love, The kind we all promise to each other.

I asked you this. "Would you still love me if I was a worm?" over text one night.

You sent me back a picture of a jar with dirt and sticks in it.

I love you.