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 | Insect. |
I am the spider living in the inseam of your curtain â my neighbourhood is the space between the sill and the window. I am often stranded in your pillow, an attempt to walk taller, insolent toward number and age, so as to not be eaten while you sleep. I live off the insects that click against the glass, before, exhausted, die, tricked by promise, the sealed off jar of sunlight. I decorate your house with webs, which embroider a halo over our lamp. sometimes, when you take my gifts, I catch you. |
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