I hate how they stick to you when you finally move them away, holding on for dear life at the ends of your fingers.
That was the part that always made me want to avoid touching them in the first place. I’d see them hanging in perfect interlocked and spiral form to remind me, everything comes back full circle, everything is intertwined and reciprocal,
the artisan of the contraption long gone, leaving me, wondering if the artisan even cared how I felt in the first place.
I often make these types of things my issue. Duck my head low and avoid the past, as I let thoughts build webbed shrines around the corners of my psyche. I can’t stand the ones you never see coming, walking obliviously into the very thing you always said you’d swipe away one day soon. The way it always hits you in the face. The way you fear the one that did, or could, have made it, how you take it personally, seek vengeance, always forgetting that nature will forever do what nature does.
People don’t change no matter how much I pray they try. And neither do I. As many times as I wake up and tell myself that today is the day I clean up from top to bottom. As many days as I tell myself I won’t be entangled by things I can barely see anymore.
I always run into a new web.
I didn’t understand how a fly, with so many eyes, is unable to foresee its trapped demise until I faced mine.
I don’t want my house to resemble something haunted, being afraid to speak as I walk for fear of a mouthful. I don’t want to be frightened of floorboard creaks, or thunderstorms, or dying light bulbs, or whispers, or things that go bump in the night, or my own shadow. And I don’t want to be a ghost in my own home, looking in the mirror, wondering where I went.
I spook my own damn self sometimes. And I think that’s why, I’ve been standing in the same place for so long, afraid of both my home, and my body. I’m learning to love myself again, my home again, to dust the cobwebs off again. Learning to redecorate, refurnish, and rebuild, all over again. Learning to walk again. It’s been a while. They’re small, but they feel like miles, these steps. I’m walking without fear again, learning, again, how to be a resident in my own home.
~Virgenal Owens the Poet
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