Couldn't bare to sleep with a spider in my bed.
I couldn't even think about it.
The love that I'm holding for you is
Comes from a pod of frustrated blood.
A fellow artist and his
untrustworthy survival instincts,
sustained by thievery and broken glass,
to call it untrustworthy
might be putting it mildly.
(I know her now), she was the first animal
that ever tried to love me back.
First to say "Yes, thank you,
I drink all these affections you throw as if I
found an easy excuse to live but
Here! This! Look! I can give this back to you,
take my love and be gentle?"
Guess I'm just not used to that.
I feel very underwater from her.
It is a distance which does not
account for nearness nor farness.
It keeps me awake most nights, I
keep my eyes closed, try to sweat out the guilt.
But as soon as I can feel it, that
pattern of hairs and skinny legs in an
oval against the bottom of my foot like a
whole hand's worth of fingers shrinking inwards through
the bars of a cell
I'll kick it away, frantically alert
flinging it off me faster than any
angel you ever heard of could hit the ground, by God.
I can't even really think about it.