Language flits above my head, glinting and spinning,
I grasp a sentence, but like a butterfly,
my touch kills it.
It curls like a spider corpse,
words pressed up to its abdomen,
vowels shivering like spider knees,

Swirl honey on my palms,
I am weak, but if I catch their gossamer webs
and swallow them, scattering my throat with silver spiders,
I could speak.

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