She Is a Spider

Intricately fragile, embracing her curves, She silently breathes in this womb, This womb where she is a prey to its wants, Its black silken webbing costume, That clenches her neck, runs down her back, Is tattooed the length of her leg, Where every small inch of her dark gothic body, Is covered in this spider’s thread, She’s at one with this life of widowed disguise, Eyeliner, fishnets, boots, and nails, Each covered in this rich exquisite black web, Becoming her corseted black jail, And she wakes up at three, the unlit in the dark, To play and to stalk and to bite, To walk in the black crisp air of your town, Our black widow who walks in the night.