To the spider,

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the shadowed creature in the corner of the room,

 

I hate you.

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You scared me just as your brothers and sisters did before you,

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and I will tell you what I told them.

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You are a trespasser that does not belong here.

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You entered without knocking.

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Roamed freely like this is your home and decorated my walls with unwanted, silk webs without asking.

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You may not be the only killer here, but only one of us is innocent,

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and it's not you.

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The spider says to me, it's brittle body squashed and dying,

 

It's not you, either.

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There is venom infused in my fang-shaped maws,

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but I was born this way.

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What's your excuse?

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If you could count your murders, how long would you be counting?

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Am I really this threatening?

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I thought human hearts were bigger that mine, but you have killed with malice instead of marrow of your bones and poison bubbling behind your scowl.

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And i'm sorry for scaring you,

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but I didn't know being seen would cost me my life.

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Maybe

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if you didn't fabricate the prickly feeling of my legs creeping upon your skin while I crawled across the living room floor;

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if the webs I weaved were made of cotton candy and captured clementines, cherries, and sweet peas rather than struggling wings and blood;

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if I had a pink tongue, push fur, a wagging tail, and fur legs instead of eight;

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if I had only two eyes, and they were glittering stars and not supermassive block holes;

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If i was the same but looked different;

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maybe you wouldn't hate me.

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Maybe you wouldn't have loved me, either,

 

and maybe you still wouldn't have let me stay,

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but maybe you would've shown me the door

 

or a window.

 

Maybe you would've shown me mercy.

 

(But you are still standing, and I am still sorry).

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I think

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maybe,

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no matter how reluctant,

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mercy would've been enough.

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"ten legs, eight broken" -  l, e