Insects were my very first,
to hear my mother tell it,
baby me, presumed cursed,
found a wasp and held it.

I crawled across the grass
one day and smiled ear to ear.
Upon a little flower sat
the pointy little dear.

Lacking friends, I didn’t care,
I solaced in the knowing
that insects would be everywhere,
all while I was growing.

My mother then, she called me queer
(the strange one, not the dyke).
Yet I was there and saw it clear
the ways she got me right.

They warned me of the risks,
the bullies, and the pain.
But I already knew the tricks
the inverts taught the game.

The smallness of my ears, you see,
the way my clothes were old.
So many ways to torture me,
young minds are sharp and bold.

Insects were my very first,
the way I’d like to tell it,
teenage me, embraced the curse,
became The Swarm and felt it.

Cassie (she/her) is an entomologist, poet, animal rescuer, and part-time editor. Her semi-slug poem can be found on the Young Voices of Science website (Fall 2025 cohort) and she has other poems pending publication. She's currently a sister, daughter, cousin, partner, mom, auntie, friend, granddaughter, and probably something else to someone else. Everyone matters, take care of each other.