Don’t clean the corners. No, let the spiders hang. I’ll watch the webs grow wider, the tales those spiders spin.
Is there a language in those shapes? Do spiders write what they know?
Is our tale being spun there in silk, in the margins of the window?
It’s a script for eight eyes to read, but I wish I could understand it, too.
I guess what I’m saying is, don’t be surprised if I perform every once in a while for the spiders in the room.
I want them to remember me. I want to be caught in their web.
It’s better than being here. It’s better than being left for dead.
If a crowd of spiders sense the sadness here, perhaps they’ll interfere. Maybe they’ll bite me and grant me a superhero career.
It’s all I can hope for. It’s all I can embrace.
It’s all I can do when, if I watch those spiders hanging, I see me dangling in their place.
* Just a reminder that this is FICTION. No need to worry about my state of mind, dear readers.