Maybe one day

I’ll be able to loosen the spider silk web of knots

I spun inside my ribcage

and let your fingers rifle through my bones

like a rummage sale.

Picking out dusty aches and tarnished memories,

deciding if they’re worth taking home.

Maybe one day

with a daughter of my own,

I can teach her not to weave

strands of self loathing into her skeleton.

You did everything right,

but I was always

sitting at a loom

with fingers at the ready.

One thought on “Arachne

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