I looked down at my right hand
At the old bloodied bandage around my
And I couldn’t remember how I had wounded it.
I tugged at the carapace-like gauze and it slipped off
Fairly easily, to reveal another underneath,
Bloodier, crustier, older
That one was a little harder to remove
And exposed a hole in the side of the finger
So wide and deep, I was shocked that the digit was still on my hand.
Then the liquid started shooting out–
Not blood, at least not just blood–
It looked like lime green Gatorade (sorry, Gatorade and Gatorade lovers)
And it was coming out like a geyser
I don’t recall if there was pain because the horror of it
And then I saw the Spider, big and black like a tarantula,
Hiding inside the palm of my hand and behind it somehow
Making itself known to me
Flexing it’s long limbs as I flexed my own fingers
Bringing piercing pain that lanced through my hand
How will I draw, cook, eat, write, caress, masturbate,
Knowing this thing is there?
Pulsing, biting, laying eggs slowly killing me?
It hissed and I knew that if I even thought about reaching
For a cleaver, it would secrete its deadly venom up into my arm
To spread up my shoulder and through my chest
And I would be paralyzed and either bleed out on the kitchen floor, suffocate from my lungs being unable to draw air,
Or perhaps my heart would slowly grind to a halt.
I was going to have to live with this thing
In my hand
For the rest of my life
For however much time I had left.
I blinked and it was gone
It was just me in bed on a lazy Saturday morning.
At least, that’s what I told myself.