Dustin Triplett
The God of Small Deaths
I am the guy who got the call
when something skittered behind drywall—
a noise too fast to be remembered,
too slow to be ignored.
They let me in
like a priest with a crucifix full of poison.
I didn’t bless the space,
just pulled the fridge back,
found a nest of roaches huddled like secrets.
I saw what people live with
when they think no one’s watching—
grease-caked counters,
a sticky residue above the sink,
cat shit in a shoebox,
old birthday balloons clinging to the ceiling
like ghosts that forgot the date.
There’s a rhythm to the kill:
spray, bait, dust, repeat.
You learn to walk quiet.
You learn where they hide.
You learn what sugar means.
And still—
the crawlspace never dries,
the attic always breathes,
and every wall hums like it’s waiting
to be torn open.
I used to count the bodies.
Now I just wash my hands
and try not to think
about what’s still moving
after I leave.