Insect Infestation

A stream of consciousness short story regarding my unwanted flatmates. 

Never noticed the sensation of bugs scavenging my skin while I sleep. Instead, I wake to red throbbing bumps multiplying on my legs. Constant scratching throughout my day.
Two spiders live between the off white ceiling and the broken window within my bathroom. There are three egg sacks among them. Keeping cosy between the trim and the glass. I would like to vacuum them up, however, my Henry has retired. The window doesn’t close, tracks broken. Instead the door stays permanently closed. Unless my bowels force me to embrace the cold. 
The two unnamed spiders have taught me that they do in fact poo. Brown streaks meet the white wooden window sill with black speckled dots. At first, I cleaned up after my guest. 
Under a clear acrylic cup impersonating glass is a European hornet laying on its back. Wings candied yams. Like the grey moth on the desk under an old salsa container. The moth moved in a week after me. 
My plant Rainbow is under attack. My herb garden stood no chance. Thrip infested dirt used to replant. She tries so desperately, constantly praying to the goddess who lives within the sun. Four villains soak in a small vinegar bath, the other dishes remain untouched. Whenever I enter the kitchen I clap bodies between my palms. Their silverness sparkle as they manoeuvre the cinnamon sprinkled dirt.
Her leaves are dropping, I’m too afraid to water her. In case the flying speckles come after me. I sleep with the bedroom door closed. Hoping they don’t notice the gap between the floor and the wooden boards.
Had a grasshopper named Mr.Rabbit living in my shower. Not quite sure how he entered. His insect soul haunts the dimly lit plastic coffin. His corpse was flung out the back door four days after he died. 
Not sure how to evacuate these tenets. Mr.Rabbit needed to be removed. I held no will, and had to call in an untrained exterminator. 

When I was a child, my family stayed Up North. With a chain of three lakes, encased in a pork intestines forest. Over the summer, my Dads back hosted a housefly's larva. Inserted deep within his skin. Causing pain as my mother had to remove the egg before my father went into birth. 

I slept in bed with a person I have no wish to remember. Underneath, undenounced to me, lived two ant colonies. Kept in clear houses, they stared at my thrashing body. I never like walking past that flat after that. 

I’m in fear of bed bugs. When I enter a hotel, I refuse to let bodies or bags land on the bed until I take a flashlight to the seam of each mattress. Oprah taught me that as I watched her program after preschool.

Others say the insufferable itches I face on my legs are mosquitoes getting in. The window in my bedroom broken, metal hinges eroded away. I think the bed bugs live in my skin. 

Mr. Rabbit