Spiders have embroidered
webs behind my eyes.
I am void,
a wreck,
a quivering lethargy.
Spiders play on their webs,
which are my webs,
as if strings on a violin,
and the sounds they make
are the only sentence
you hear me saying:
everything
is
fine.
But the spiders are hungry
so they eat my thoughts
as if flies trapped on webs.
My whole body is a concert hall
and the words echo through me.
They become catchy after a while,
as if a jingle on a commercial,
and some time after that,
I can stretch to all the corners
and edges of my body.
I can fill every space.
And I might as well
be starting to believe that
everything is going to be fine.