Well, I was going to go to bed. That is, until a bug appeared within six inches of my face. Now at first, because it was suspended in the air and moving around, I assumed it was a fly. That option was quickly ruled out when I saw how thin the body was. My next guess was mosquito, but mosquitoes don't get that big. Or at least, not around here. And then I saw the legs.
You may be an innocent arachnid that was caught in the breeze of my fan, going about your life in the only way a simple arachnid knows how, BUT YOU MADE THINGS PERSONAL WHEN YOU VIOLATED MY PERSONAL BUBBLE.
I withdrew from the scene immediately to turn off my fan and turn on my light. You were safely hidden on my wall for a good several minutes until I SPOTTED YOU. But I took too long deciding what would be your tool of death and destruction. AND YOU MOVED!!!! Now I suspect you are safe in the space between an item nailed to the wall and the wall itself.
Now I am paranoid about every little tickle on my skin, every little trick my eyes play on me, and paranoid that you will only crawl back out of your hiding place when I try to sleep again. Now I feel as though I cannot comfortably attempt sleep. All because you invaded my personal bubble.
How dare you, innocent little arachnid. How dare you.
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The Mind
Mainly a record of my more interesting dreams that I was able to remember after waking up. (Apparently my uncontrollable confessions, as well. In the form of poetry. All to the same man.)
If the boy who draws
lets you look over his shoulder.
If the poet
smiles
and shows you her words.
If the girl who sings for the shower only,
hums a song
in front of you.
Know that you’re no longer a person
but the air
and dust
that fills their lungs.
When the world perishes,
and all things cease to exist,
you’ll remain inside an ink stain,
a paint brush,
a song.
— Alaska Gold
lets you look over his shoulder.
If the poet
smiles
and shows you her words.
If the girl who sings for the shower only,
hums a song
in front of you.
Know that you’re no longer a person
but the air
and dust
that fills their lungs.
When the world perishes,
and all things cease to exist,
you’ll remain inside an ink stain,
a paint brush,
a song.
— Alaska Gold