I’ve always been a wanderer. Never set still, never satisfied with what I had, wanderer. So like any wanderer would do, I wandered. I let the wind guide my soul while my body followed, through rushing rapids and calm oceans, but soon I washed upon a beach and woke to the feeling of spiders in my chest, weaving their webs inside but these webs do not signify hallow chest, hey signify a carefully woven security system. One wrong move and the threads one by one pluck themselves off my fragile bones. Leaving the spider to no longer recluse into the dark crevasses of my chest, but to angrily be awoken and fall into the pit of my stomach where it joins the others who have tried and failed in filling up my chest with webs.

But what happens when they form together and crawl up my stomach, into my chest? Instead of 8 legs artistically weaving the inside of my chest, there will be 800. At that point am I even allowed to call it mine? Or is it now their’s and I am no longer “I,” but just an overthrown tree, dead on the inside but filled with life that is not my own. My trunk no longer speaks of me but of them. I am no longer my own so please do not look at me and say, “your skin is beautiful,” because what has been done to it is not me, but I’d rather speak in metaphors than be blunt because at least with symbolism I can pretend that my pain is beautiful. A tree with deep carvings created by a lover is more eloquent that scars on my skin left by me.


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