Soon the spiders will be home.
I feel the tingling on my spine.
Already we have Stockholm syndrome.
Though we couldn’t pick them from a line.
We’re caught, and we love it.
All our thoughts are theirs:
our breakfast, our break-ups, our cares,
Our warm blood, our mucous, our hairs.
We’re caught, and we love it.  

I hear the spiders coming now.
I feel a quaking in my chest.  
To them I will make a pure vow:
I’ll never look away; I’ll never rest.
I’ll stay; I’ll stay tangled.
I’ll be their willing prey.
When they feast one me, I will lay.
I won’t try to wriggle away.
I’ll stay; I’ll stay tangled.