Under my skin, the spiders crawl, They build
a fire to dance around; they lead me scratching to
their
rhythm. Spiders that never unveil their bodies infest
mine. They
never bite or scratch, just dance unfazed by the
halting machinery inside me. At night it’s the worst.
They teleport from my forearms to my calves. I plunge beneath my furry spread to scratch at nothing but
sedate haris resting atop my skin; they’re gone. I sleep contorted with spasms and fury. I peel my
skin to take a look at my spindly guests. In the night,
I see their red flame left behind. In the night, they leap back and forth, eventually infesting my mind. And
I dream about the webs where I lie; and the queen that
surrounds, and the X dripping on her rounded back. She watches as I squirm; as I lose control. Each twitch
wrapping me tighter. Each cry floating me further into the nightmare. I know I’m
dreaming, but the fangs she dangles are more real than any of the spiders that dance in me during
the day. And when I reach out in false bravery, she clamps down and injects me with
millions of her young, who only dance in their prison
under my skin, their eternal shelter from reality.