The carpet reeks of mud and scraps of food
I can feel them crawling on me
Eight little legs, eight little eyes
Scampering, clawing, biting, digging
Through the cracks of my skin, my molecules, atoms
They’re in my veins, my brain
Am I anything? Am I gone? Am I nothing
But webs, tangled, rotten?
Cut me open. Stick a hose in my mouth.
Wash them away.
I can feel them crawling on me.