“A spider's bag the rest, from which she gives a thread, and still by constant weaving lives.” - Ovid my web is made from juice in my abdomen. the bitter taste of neglect lingers in my mouth before i create patterns of words undeserving of your second glance. they are like cat hair on wool, strands ensnaring thoughts and human flesh, multiply into the minds of thousands scurrying across wooden planks to attract the attention of nations, barricading the streets and spitting at my slanted eyes. you tear at my webs, spinning language into slurs, shoving them into closets. i make art from your skeletons. they still linger in the corners of your memory, pushed away but never forgotten. disguised as the nuisance behind the shed, hidden between the crevices of your cracking facade, i lay in debris, poison stinging the back of my throat. because when my silk has been destroyed i will devour what’s left and regurgitate a masterpiece.