Black Belly of the Tarantula

I know the ways of the large, dark, cruel, venomous tarantula,
I know how it uses its venom to keep innocent victims
hanging by thin silk ropes, paralyzed, but aware.
I won’t give our secret away, spider, about how easy it is to act as you do.
Will you tell them about your venom, as you’ve told me?
Tell them that her hair was enticing, a glowing sugared lemon drop.
Tell them how another girl’s hair is constantly luring me towards her,
repeating the burning look every girl has given me as I admit
that the venom keeps her alive, the look she always gives me
as we watch the red rivers flow from her freshly punctured flesh.
And it’s a beautiful thing, that this tarantula’s venom keeps her alive
every time I see another one sprawled on the floor.
One night, the girl’s brown stomach looked soft like pudding.
So I dug my shining blade through that pudding-soft flesh,
with the sight of red rivers burning into the whites of her staring eyes, sparkling eyes,
burning like a lemon sun taunting me with heat, digging through the body,
burning like scars from shiny spider pinchers and knives,
I continuously watch her white eyes burn out, white nothingness.


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