The Queen Of Spiders
I told you I loved you,
but you just laughed:
“You don’t love me.
You just love the idea of me.”
I try to talk,
but the cobwebs
stuck to the roof of my mouth,
shut it tight.
“You can’t blame it on me.
I’ve already cleared my part
of the house.
Maybe you should take a good look
in the
mirror,”
Mirror,
on the wall,
I guess my web didn’t fit here after all.
Agoraphobic,
arachnophobic,
yet you look at me
with those deadly eyes
and all I want to do
is dress you up
in silk and gauze
sinking my teeth
deep in your flesh
drinking your
stories
until the record breaks.
You know my stomach
is big enough
for two?
You do not,
do not,
know what you do,
Little Black Shoe.
I would have to live
a thousand years,
to wait for you.
The moon lifts
her sheepish grin
cast over my
glistening threads
in the wind.
This is my home,
so carefully knit.
I let you in,
but you can never
stay,
Pumpkin Boy,
Cinderella.
I swear I see your
face in every drop of dew
when the Sun wakes me
in that moment
caught between worlds,
I swear you are there
next to me,
carved out of marble
for me to break my teeth on.
The sad part is
it’s just a reflection
of the sky
shrunk and
flipped upside-down
peering back at me
dripping down
my web
before the hunger
settles back in.