Wishbone Spider
There is a spider in his bed.
He thinks it means something. He fears it means something. Retribution comes in lucid moments; coherence leaks the venom of a black widow. He tells no one.
As a child, spindly legs were pulled as sport. Hold two opposing appendages and yank. Like a wishbone. Perhaps he should have given them a proper burial afterward. Maybe he shouldn't have done it at all.
There's a spider on his pillow.
He cannot see its eyes, but they are no less threatening. He will dream of his legs being pulled apart, rough tugging like they did when he wandered. His is always a crime committed, a crime forgotten.
As a resident where color is left to minds tampered into calm. Hold the man down and shove. Like an infant. Perhaps he should have beaten his own brain willingly. Maybe he shouldn't have spit out the pills.
There's a spider on the drapes.
He harbors no desire to forbid its trek. Limbs will slide beneath covers that will rise to the chin. And one eye will follow the arthropod's path while the other leaves the present to bury insect corpses.