Tell my psychiatrist I am comforted
By the bites of my plastic spider, stung
In the neck, in broken arms, on the lips.
I squander hours in solitude, and I think
Of poisonous things to say at my trial.
The charges are measured in tears I’ve put
In their eyes, the roster of things they’ve seen
Between the hours of dusk and dawn. The
Gates slam shut behind; the guards put out smokes,
And walk ahead with me, into the brightly lit,
Courtroom. The plastic spiders have lost all
Charm but not their bite, I live in a fearless wait.
The murmur of lawyers dies down, and voices
Say, the Horrible Judge is presiding!!
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