You Laid Eggs Under my Eyelids? by Bogdan Dragos

The close up of a housefly sitting on a tiled surface
Image Source: Snappa

the pains in his lower back

were killing him

“Fuck,” he said, “that’s what I get for

not investing into

a decent chair.” He reached into

his pack and took

out another cigarette. “But I gotta smoke

to stay alive.

What a shitty life.”

He typed for another 36 minutes

and then

his friend, the fly, came to rest on his

knuckles. He blew smoke

on it. Laughed

The fly had gotten inside a while

ago. It was a big one, very

curious, ever exploring. And now trapped

He never opened the damned windows

or the door

Sat there in his smoke

and rancid smells. Said they helped with

inspiration for writing. Said

no good writing ever came out

of a healthy mind

He leaned back in his broken chair

watched the fly circle around

the naked light bulb in the ceiling

shook his fist at it. “You piece of shit laid

eggs in my eyelids? Why do I feel

like you laid eggs under my eyelids? They’re

always sore, always itching, red, hot. I

don’t want your maggot babies

stickin’ out of my eyes, thank you very much.

Huh? What was that? Ah, you little bitch,

that’s right. You ain’t got no

eggs, cuz ain’t nobody fucking you. Haaah ha!

You’re alone in here. Trapped.”

He reached for

another cigarette. “Uh, we’re too alike, you

and I. Alone and trapped. And nobody

fucking us.”

He bent down to open the lower

drawer in his desk

and his lower back screeched in pain

but he fished out the

bottle of vodka

and a glass

dropped the glass


didn’t bother picking it up

and drank straight

from the bottle

He raised the bottle at the fly

“Cheers! Here’s to two lonely, trapped, unfuckables.”

He drank

By the time he woke

up with a head-splitting hangover

the fly was dead, floating

in the vodka inside the bottle

“Shit,” he said as he drank his friend. “Don’t

think you’ve gotten away, dear.

I’m comin’ right after you. Just watch.”


Bogdan Dragos supervises casinos for a gambling company, working twelve-hour shifts locked in a dark office full of TV monitors. There he mostly daydreams and writes poems and stories. He also manages a poetry blog Daydreaming as a profession.

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11 Comments Add yours

  1. Terveen Gill says:

    Bogdan never fails to give reality a dark and suspenseful edge. A writer, a fly, and loads of words, smoke, and vodka. This could definitely make any person’s head spin. I think the fly might have known that it was doomed from the start. No wonder it decided to die in high spirits. Haha! Writers are amazing creatures.
    Congratulations Bogdan!

    Liked by 2 people

    1. (=´∀`)人(´∀‘=) Thank you! I too like to believe that the fly had a happy life, short as it was :))

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Midian Poet says:

    Congrats ! For first time , when i see the title, i think- Yes , Bogdan is now romantic! –
    Dont smoke dont drink …just write and other things come alive…when you dont want them,. of course:) its strange, but true, we are all flies, some actors in David Cronenbergs movie! 🙂

    Liked by 3 people

    1. (´▽`)ノThank you!

      I guess a series of romantic poems will follow soon. Though I can’t guarantee I’ll keep the dark edge away from them :))

      Liked by 2 people

  3. parikhit says:

    There is something sinister, something amusing and something funny about this poem. Sigh I feel for the fly!

    Liked by 3 people

    1. ଘ(੭´・ᵕ・ )੭ Surely it’s in a better place now :))

      Liked by 2 people

      1. parikhit says:

        Given the world situation, I think so yes.

        Liked by 1 person

  4. jonicaggiano says:

    This has got to be my favorite. I can just picture this whole scene so clearly and feel the satisfaction that the man had drinking the fly the next day. Great piece my friend. Big hugs to you!

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you! He wanted his fly friend to become a part of him. Forever ლ(´ڡ`ლ)


  5. Absolutely brilliant!

    Liked by 1 person

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