your voice is like a mass of spiders:
crawling from every corner,
a swarm of life,
entrancing,
fuzzy,
perhaps a wolf spider
your thoughts are like spider legs:
a max of eight (like your IQ),
they’re all about you,
jointed,
easily broken,
a daddy longleg
a wolf spider could eat a daddy longleg,
but I wouldn’t give it the chance because:
I’m not like my grandma,
who used big yellow sponge
to gently push you out the door.
all I have here is my boot.
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