[266 words]
When I was eight I had a friend who ate bugs. It started when an orange butterfly, soft as lint and no bigger than her pinky finger, landed on her arm. I dared her to eat it. She didn’t. I called her a pussy. The next day, we were hanging from the monkey bars when another butterfly flew past. She dropped down and stood still. When it landed on the denim leg of her shorts, she pinched the wings between her fingers and shoved it into her mouth. She didn’t chew before she swallowed. After that, she became an indiscriminate eater. Ants, ground beetles, centipedes, earthworms. She licked dirt from her knuckles and let caterpillars squirm across her tongue. Worm guts stained her teeth bright orange. Beetle legs twitched from between her lips. The playground started calling her The Girl Who Eats Bugs. This didn’t stop her. When she swallowed a mosquito and it buzzed in her throat, I told her gluttony kills. My mom told me that once, when I snuck Little Debbies from the pantry. I told her she didn’t want to get fat. When she laughed, a wing fell out from between her teeth. On the last day of school, she was out by the fence and digging holes with her hands, her nails packed with soil. She threw clumps of dirt at the trees. She had eaten all the bugs. Then she sat down and started crying. Ladybug legs spilled from her tear ducts and beetle oil slicked her cheeks. When she blinked at me, something was still wriggling behind her eyes.
Taylor R. Kelley is a queer writer pursuing a master’s degree in english at the university of missouri, specializing in creative nonfiction writing. outside of her studies, she enjoys reading, writing, going on long walks/hikes in nature alongside her dog, and getting tattoos. she has pieces published in ‘across the margin’ and ‘queer toronto literary magazine.’
