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My house is full of spiders. Underbed. Kitchen cupboards. Plaguing my study, waiting for my fingers to caress their fluffy dusty bodies when I scootch closer to my desk. Mingling degradation in my dresser. Particle eyes. Bones faced. I precariously liberate my underwear.
Their mangled dead clog my sink. Carcasses outpouring. Stringy limbs limp in the leaky drips. I haven’t used the taps in a week.
Theses spindly bastards traverse the baseboards behind the television. I had to pull the couch off the wall in fear they’d use it as an overpass to reach their nests.
I feel them when I sleep. Tickling my nose. They whisper. Weaving demonic dreams. Torment.
The largest colony resides in my old VCR slot. A requisition acquired when I upgraded last year. They giggle in the updraft at me. Whirring. Purring. I’m too afraid to watch the news. I shelter within the laundry room. They’re wary about the noise.
I’m unsure how to proceed. These spiders are lazy, but vicious with deceit. When I sprint past them for the door, they chase after me, curling and whisping in the undertow. I wish I was born without a head.
Forgive me. I misspoke. I often confuse the two. Dust bunnies. Not Spiders. My house brims with ireous dust bunnies.
How silly of me.
