The Spider in the Shower.

Every morning, I take a shower at
11 AM, and every morning, it's there.
It curls its legs to me, drawing closer
until it's directly above me.
I've learned not to cower or shriek,
I don't want it to be afraid.

I don't have the heart to crush it
because we've come to an agreement.
We're allies now, though I'm sure
my father would spit in disgust and say
"it doesn't belong there, just kill it!"

But if what if we killed everything
that didn't belong?

This brain doesn't belong, when
depression corners me and shuts
the lights off.

This heart doesn't belong, when I
care more than the shadows of the
world and every attempt at love is met
with fear or oblivion.

Some days, I can't tell if I am the
spider or the human. I'm upside down,
watching from a distance, and no one
cares about my intentions...

I only make them cringe.

Today, I found its body
crushed at the bottom of the tub;
I hate that I know the
consolatory feeling of being dead.