By Thomas Caterer

At first it was a spindly one, long creeping legs
summer’s heralds here are spiders and slugs
the long-legged spider guarded the bathroom door
so I held my piss and resented the little bastard

‘Being stuck here’s no good for my mental health’
a mantra I’d tell myself, but a cop-out too
why couldn’t I be stronger? Just not think on
all the painful memories, just clear your head,
to clear your path to escape

Later there were those thick black ones
almost furry with fat abdomens
they move fast, and when I found them in my room
they kicked me out, and I went without sleep

‘I need to get away from here’
I told myself for the umpteenth time
these past couple of years
as much to get away from the bloody spiders
as anything else

Yet also to get away from the memories
the ghosts you’d pass in the town
the voices of your parents bringing to mind hurtful times
the feelings of anger and hate when remembering
the wrongs done to you, your hands balling into fists
I’d imagine a scene of bloody revenge, and call it righteous
I don’t like who I am in those moments
There’s no shortage of scapegoats to take the blame off myself
for those pitch black feelings
for example there was this one big black spider, near the size of my hand

I couldn’t sleep at all that night