to hold no animosity towards you,
quietly webbing on my ceiling—
a blind man’s facsimile of terror,
a child in a ghost sheet
trying to glide as though footless.
you are there, and i am here.
my urge to kill you is so deeply ingrained
that to accept your presence is to accept
a phantom limb
that still, occasionally,
brushes another’s hand.
you are spinning my erratic heartbeat in sticky strands
of which the sole purpose is to kill
so that blood might be drained and life sustained
but which are so beautiful
studded as the crown of morning’s coronation.
i would leave you, were you not directly above my head.
perhaps you too are afraid you might fall.
but i cup you in a glass that is soft opaque with wear
and carry you to the foreign outside
and hope you might find
a friendlier ceiling to web on.
Year 13, Columba College