I try to be more like the spiders,
Their thread sinks between my toes sullen in its charade,
I watch my skin tighten and purple,
Fishhooks tugging cold like the merciless hands of a lover,
I feel her breath fill my lungs and hold it,
The ailing thread deepens in unsettled places,
I struggle, moaning like a whore,
They dangle next to me, those awkward naked ornaments shallow and reeking of whiskey,
I hear them silently twisting in their tears and torment,
A child splitting the violin strings of his throat, louder than most,
I smell his sour drippings, coating the thread,
And he hung ugly and bloated, like an unfinished doll,
I'm tr