The summer I moved out, my new apartment was littered with spiders. Willowy legs crawled from beneath doors, sealed windows, shower drains. Everywhere I looked, I found eyes staring up at me, curiously waiting for the foot to fall. Wondering if I might let them live, so long as they stayed out of sight.
Locals reassured me it was a common phenomena. Terrifying at first, but harmless. They simply followed light, wherever they could find it.
With this in mind, I expected myself to be kinder. Instead, I prepared for war. I rolled newspapers, stomped boots. Anything to keep them under me. Anything to keep them from finding the light I searched eighteen years for.
The summer I moved out, I learned to forgive my mother. Perhaps we weren't so different, after all.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoezjaThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
