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.)
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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