My hair is quite long,
but it's longest in the shower
and you wouldn't know that
unless you were the spider on the wall.

She watches me with all eight eyes,
unravelling me as I
unravel myself. In the bathroom
mirror, inadequate.

Sometimes when I eat,
my fingers end up down my throat
but you wouldn't know that
unless you were the spider on the wall.

It's dark outside, I turn on the fan
for the noise to cover up:
the retching, the soft splash.
Quick, flush the shame.

In the shower is my razor, and sometimes
it ends up carving at my hips.
No one knows this
except the spider on the wall.

Box of bandaids, fix nothing inside
wipe away the blood, feel the sting.
SlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSlitSl­itSlit.
Once for every year I regret being alive.

My knuckles tell a story, all
mottled, acid-bitten skin.
So do my hips, and the backs of my wrists.
Oh, spider; why'd you have to tell?