where_the_ceiling_meets_the_wall raze i watch your brown marbled body move above my bed. you won't find anything in here worth eating. something tells me you already know. you wander into a small pocket of something left behind by a spider that was probably dust before you hatched, and the silk straightjacket traps you where the ceiling meets the wall. you work your way out, but the snare won't surrender its grip on your sixth scrambling leg. you go on walking, slower than before but too stubborn to stop. you drag the unwanted cargo behind you. try to shake it off with every step you take. when that won't work, you fly onto the face of a floor lamp. you use the crooked shade that softens the light to pry loose what painted plasterboard didn't want to take from you. you deserve a better name than the smell that seeps out of the holes in your stomach when you're threatened. you're not a bug. you're a metaphor for my whole life. 220514 what's it to you? who go blather from