I'm a single, silver thread
spun by a poisonous spider.

I am an architect.
I design walls
to protect myself.

I used to crave darkness.
I used to stay up,
hiding myself away in
the black night sky.

I used to walk
around empty streets,
toward nothing,
toward anything else.

Drunks stumbled around me,
straggling toward home,
toward a cozy bed.
I still walked.

I don't know what I was looking for.
Maybe nothing,
maybe anything.
Maybe the sunrise.

My legs are still,
but they ache,
ache to move,
to propel me toward you.

They want to run,
slicing through the air,
like razors, cutting
like knives.

They are right angles,
like the rest of me:
Sharp
and unforgiving.

Your tongue is fire.
My skin has turned to ash.

I've always been
independent:
never needing anyone
to take care of me,
to hold me,
to love me.

You make me want that
and I hate you for it.