There is a web of lies hanging from the ceiling
And of course I am the Araneae responsible.
Octagons appear in my dreams,
Confessions written on each side.
Inside and out, but within the lines
There is nothing, just pure soft cotton.
My web does not exist to capture or
Destroy, it is there to protect.
Sometimes myself, but now I keep
You there too. Close beside me.
My little spider legs wrapped around you,
Tickling your spine.
You are mine.

Read this poem on Tumblr. Number 8.