Would you still love me if I was all slimy slithering ridges wriggling and writhing in the dirt?
If I was hard to pin down and catch,
clammy, slick and hard to stomach on bare hands,
made for the dirt and rot and damp seclusion?
Would you still love me if I made homes in decaying flesh?
If I found my peace in obscene, repulsive, ever-squirming masses,
would I disgust you and could you forgive me?
Would you still love me if I couldn’t tell you were doing it?
For the record, I’d still love you if I was a worm.
I’d love you in that special way that worms do,
eating rot, never seeing the sun or the flowers they help bloom.
I’d love you in that special way that animals do,
in the way that maybe the drive to keep something alive, warm, pumping
is perhaps love unrecognized.
I’d love you like the cold, dark earth loves
the hungry, winding roots that burrow insatiably deeper.
That’s how I’d love you if I was a worm.
Melissa Satmar is a senior at DePaul University, finishing her degree in English creative writing. She’s dabbled in many things, but always comes back to poetry. She’s glad that this poem, unlike many others, has made it out of the insane ramblings of her notes app.