A curse

Above your shower head
there is a nest
a web of gossamer and thread.
Each morning a dark spider wakes
to lay her brittle eggs.

Soon
the crippled children hatch
if you could see their faces you'd see
brutal nasty things
with fangs and breath
and beedy eyes that dart from side to side.

They learn to walk and sting and poison
before they've been alive two minutes
and at three you lumber to the tub
where they learn to mate with
lice already squirming in your hair.

The small ones fall into the porcelain
river down below
others recover throwing grapling hooks
to regain their lost position.

Stationed on your crown they hang
from synthetic string so delicate
slide up and down your limbs each day
poisoning you slowly
seducing your white blood cells
teeth filled with wine and moonshine
fermented in the womb.

They know your body well
they find nooks inside your ear
or under dirty fingernails
so they can rest their plotting heads
while you move about the day.

And at night they'll once again awaken
their legs grow inches longer everytime
to crawl across your stomach
that wrinkled belly button
line your lips with acidic vomit
and peel into the skin
of your crusty eyelid
to steal your thoughts
the pretty ones at least
while you sleep content to dream.