Bed Bugs.
I would be a really good one. Hiding in crevices of carpets, couch seems, underwear drawers, boxsprings, the corner behind the desk you're too lazy to vacuum. Nooks and Crannies. English Muffins. Sandwiched with my family in the flesh of a $900 sealy posterpedic. Sleep all day. Huddled, cuddled. Fed with warm blood. Better than a mango even, than 1000 melons. Just sleep breed and feed. Then stay up all night. Blood shot eyes. Free blood.
My sisters favorite hiding spot was the dryer when we played hide and go seek. Even if I was seeking I pretended I couldn't see her edge her head in and squish her knees up to her forhead. This is when my dream of living in the trunk of a tree or someone's ear drum begins. But I could never fit. But I always enjoyed the comfort of soft heavy weight on me as a child. In my basement was the old futon. Watching scrambled porno or The Secret World of Alex Mack I would fold the gray musty matress in half on top of me. Sometimes holding my breath. Comforting crushing warmth. I could be a really good bed bug.
