SPIDER LADY

She’s a spider.
All of us strap a knife to our leg
to hack away at her web
while she sucks life from souls
not wanting to commit murder
yet wishing she was dead,
wishing if we keep destroying
her mesh of conflicts,
she’ll spread her tendrils
across new territories,
forgetting our husks
fluttering in her wake.
She’s a spider.
We dream of her beneath
someone’s shoe, a squashed
spit of venom left to evaporate
without a eulogy of remorse.