C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

Oh Stinkbugs

By: Abbie Doll







you can go straight to hell

you’re such an ugly thing, and you reek of rot

even while your little nasty heart is still beating

(has anyone ever told you?)

most creatures wait until they die to stink as bad as you.


why do you torment me?

it’s clear you like to lurk in the shadows,

poised where the wall meets the ceiling, crawling along the divide as if it were a runway

pursuing a promenade around the perimeter

but let me make one thing clear, you’re not a victoria’s secret model

and you never will be.


I see you up there, slowly but inevitably inching your way towards me

or centimetering, maybe you subscribe to the metric system, I wouldn’t be surprised

I’m amazed at how hideous you are, your skin the color of bland carpet and walls

a neutral neutered color


agh – get away from me!

I’m not stupid

I know how you like to wait, until I’m least expecting it

and then kick off the wall, pouncing towards me with a backflip

quit pretending you’re the karate kid or some projectile propelled from a wwii bomber

I’ll tell you who’s the enemy here

band of brothers unite


the second you come towards me, it’s personal

you won the battle, but the war’s not over

here, let me introduce you to my trusty thirsty steed –

the household vacuum cleaner

au revior! So long, you tiny menace

next time stay the hell outta my house

you’ve got the whole stinkin’ world outside

how is that not enough?




Abbie Doll is a current student in Lindenwood University’s MFA in Writing program and has served as an Editorial Assistant for The Lindenwood Review. She lives with her husband and two canine companions in Columbus, OH. Her favorite activities include curling up in her hammock with a good read, taking the pups for neighborhood strolls, and experimenting in the kitchen. Her greatest joys in life are traveling the globe and exploring the beautiful intricacies of language.


"In spring and fall, these little menaces love to march their way into my home, wiggling through who knows what to get in. Don't they realize it's a suicide mission? I won't admit to how much time I've spent observing their strange procession. Too much. I realize they're harmless, but that doesn't stop them from being such a nuisance and total distraction. One day it occurred to me that the only way these good-for-nothings could ever be good for something is as fodder for a poem."