I’m sitting in history right now, the teacher is talking and I can hear him but I can’t understand the words. I can’t filter them through the thoughts in my head. I feel like crap right now but I don’t know exactly what I’m feeling, it feels like sadness but it’s not, and my therapist told me to recognize my emotions based on what sensation I’m feeling in my body. But all I can feel is an empty pit in my stomach and that’s just hunger, and maybe an ache in my chest, pulling down on my heart, but I always feel that and it’s just normal. It’s just normal, right?
I feel like I’m going to throw up all the nothing I’m feeling, all the nothing inside me. I should be feeling something, feeling anything, but all there is in my chest is emptiness. I don’t feel, and have I ever really felt?
I think I feel heavy, but I don’t know what I feel, I’ll never know what I feel. I’m not human, I'm incapable of being human. Humans can hold things, and keep holding, but everything I grasp fades away and slips out of my hand, turning to dust and was it ever really there?
And maybe humans make errors but I make too many, more than can be counted.
I walk towards flowers and they wilt, the leaves and petals turn brown and fall off. Those same flowers when I try to water them and care for them, I give them too much and they die, they die because I tried to keep them alive. Those flowers stick to me, braided into a crown of thorns that sits upon my head.
And vines and weeds overgrow me, spiders make webs in my hair. The spiders are my only friends, and they sit with me.
I’m sitting in history right now, with the spiders and the vines and weeds and the crown of dead flowers and thorns and the empty pit with all the nothingness all tangled together to make one inhuman monstrosity, incapable of feeling and holding, to heavy to be held, that can hear but cannot understand the words, that can think but not speak the thoughts.

It's 3:43am and I'm wondering if the spider in the corner of my bathroom is dreaming
I wonder if she knows about the sun and if she ever dreams of weaving a web in the moonlight
I wonder if she knows what I'm saying when I tell her "don't worry, i'll keep you safe" and I wonder if she believes me

It’s not the dank, damp, grey days.
It’s not the drizzle that seeps through the seams of my coat.
It’s not the dark mornings.
It’s not the dark evenings.

It’s the crisp air of an early morning frost.
It’s the spiders’ webs glistening with frozen dew.
It’s the shades and hues as the leaves turn golden.
It’s the peace and quiet as nature settles down for her long sleep.

Crawling sickness becomes coagulated insectoid
Writhing within hive-mind funnels,
Constructing ambivalent torture of humanity merging together,
Congregating the organs amidst shadows of arachnid dread.

Instigation copulation with the father of crawling dread;
He who copulated with the remnants of the Godhead and penetrated cybernetic robotnoid.
Robotnoid:
He who rises from silk-woven robotnoid— crawling robotnoid.

To debark the root of evi,
l was lead to myself,
Was in ecstacy at that time so it was hard to tell,
I had fallen below that of an ****,
My loyalties had changed and so had my heart
No matter how much I weave it again
This spiders web Is in distain
Turned an tossed, left to rot
My selfish desires invoke no guilt
Now that I can not flee from the web that I have built

milk jade spiders
stowaways   from our past home
a pout of breeding pouch
appears
our new home   is similarly blessed

Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.

But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.

It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.

Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.

Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.

They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften  stools.

They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.

They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.

The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”

The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.

They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.

When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.

They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.

Were in the (study) trenches, but we don’t mind,
in the trenches, you aren’t really aware of time,
I’ve talked with a lot of my classmates,
and the citadel lights are burning late.

Ever startle awake because a spider’s on your face - but it’s only your hair?

Sunny’s been infected with the writing sickness.
She keeps saying “listen to this.”

Orthography might just be the death of me - seriously.

I dreamed Peter (my BF) was leaving.
I saw him behind the wheel of a car,
waving from the deck of a ship,
and blurred in the window of a bullet train.
It was like a wheel of misfortune.

I waited for The Monolith Spider on his denizen web,
In the silk-drained air!
In the silk-drained night!

His legs must be coarse and onyx.
His eyes must move many to tears.
Scorpions must hear his name and pince at the moon,
Locked in prison cells,
Shrouded by the haunt of night.

The Monolith Spider.
The silk-weaver.

How do we remeber the strands?
How do we cross them?