It's always been the same, I try to explain. Periods and spiders, they're the thoughts I'm bored of. If it's not a furry-legged tarantula, a bird-eating monster, I'm thinking of the heat that makes my insides moan, the dance of my stomach and the heaviness in my knees, then the weightlessness afterwards, like a money spider dancing over my wrists. These are the thoughts that keep me awake, I say. The ones I can't exorcise, the ones that line my dreams and scuttle through my words, wombs and black widows, webs and ballpoint-marked windows.
Is it just me, I ask. Why am I so afraid?
Because you are ridiculous, the woman says, and scurries away on eight legs. My body cramps, expectantly.
Dinner Time (Cinnamon Press, 2008)
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