Number 8. by Frail-Beauty - A Poem from Tumblr

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.