At night when all is dark and the silence scratches at my skin, that’s when I hear it: the incessant, insistent chirping of my own thoughts. They creep, creep, creep along creases and folds, testing the texture of my memories, seeking places to settle and feed. They gnaw, mandibles clacking, clawed feet tangling in the fine lines between truth and fiction, three-fold eyes watching the shadows for any shift in the light.

I wonder, in the mornings, what will leap from my mouth when I unlock my jaw, when I draw breath to speak? What songs will my crickets sing?