I suppose that one moment of perfect mourning would cost you too much,
   that one breach in the exoskeleton
   that you call armor
   would collapse you,
   insect.

   I can rap on the shell you call integerity,
   until a little sliver opens up
   and your blood oozes out,
   or put you in hot water and wait for the steam inside to build up and crack you.

   I suppose that sweating is too hard for you,
   exotherm, who hibernates and withdraws from the cold (shoulder)
   and is active only in the heat of the moment:
   I suppose that self-control is too hard for you.

   I suppose that your compound eyes
   give you many perspectives on the world,
   so why don't you see the validity of mine?
   I suppose that understanding is too hard for you.

   I suppose that individuality is too hard for you,
   the way you have to dance your dance
   to tell the others what you've found:
   I suppose you can't imagine freedom.

   I suppose that you think you're free,
   the way you fly and flutter from (wall) flower to (wall) flower,
   but you don't see that you can only leave pollen from other stamen
   and you don't know you never have a nose to smell the roses.

   I suppose that being endoskeletal is too hard for you,
   that you don't take well to bruises,
   that you can't take the time to avoid things in everyday life that hurt you.
   I suppose that being human is too hard for you.