Dead Ringer

The insects inside my skin have returned
I thought they had left
but it seems they were just hibernating,
and the long winter of my peace is thawing
to a world on fire
where they thrive.
They skitter along my arm and make the skin bubble,
gathering in my gut
They band together and dance in nauseating waves
as the cardboard walls and construction scaffolding of my life
I'd so carefully begun trusting
fall to pieces
turn to mush

and all I can think is
Everything in its right place.