I feel like a spider crawling up wet walls.
Your hands hold the shower head as water falls upon me, washing me toward the drain. You laugh; I’m a joke as I struggle silently, drowning down from whence I came.
But I will soon return, resurrecting my web in the corner of your washroom, home. Just like where your house sits, on the edge of this Earth you’ve known. And I wish, someday, a giant being succumbs to your self-centred syndrome. Rips your body from your throne and makes your soul regret it’s birth. Mother taught me to love my neighbours good. What did yours teach you? That you’re the bees knees? The cat’s pyjamas?
The dog’s bollocks suit you.
I washed a spider down the drain before a shower a few days ago and felt so bad that I was driven to write this mini piece of prose.
I’m pretty sure that, some day, I’ll regret every spider I have ever wronged. They’re plotting something right now, I’m sure of it. I’d just like them to know that I murmur an apology to the universe before and after every incident.
(Human People Privileges. They’re likely rolling their eight eyes right now.)