My most feared tormentor, that hushed sentry

Guarded in its webbed domain, transfixed by its prey,

Whether it be me or a sly housefly grappling against its threaded prison.

 

Orb-weaver, brown recluse, wolf, black widow,

The names of these arachnids never cease to haunt.

Though their netted homes have stunned Picasso and da Vinci with their beauty,

The beauty hides the grotesque inhabitants that lie within.

 

I myself have been ensnared by their trap,

In love with the art, but afraid of the artist,

I can never bring myself to truly despise them,

For though they spit poison, they weave webs of wonder.

 

The spider, though my tormentor, is ironically my greatest mentor,

For though they are repulsive, grotesque, and feared,

They only wish to counteract their dreaded countenances

With weavework that glistens in the sun,

And drips with dew in the rain.

 

We are revolting. We are vile, repellent beings.

But we can fight this repulsiveness,

For though we spit insults from our razor-edged fangs,

We can write, sing, perform a piece of ourselves so exquisitely

That just for a moment, we can forget our appalling dispositions

And become beautiful.

 

We are hideous. We are beautiful.

We are spiders.