Young Writers Society

You sprang from storybooks,
accompanied by the planar shadows of imagination.
But I lost you like a spider somewhere along the way
to a third dimension, a verification

that others sung the life you spun them into.

It is not that my fingers were not clever enough to hold you,
it is that you were small enough to slip between them.

Sub
human,

my beautiful black widow.
We sketch women like you into pre-packaged childhood nightmares,
ones that parents hide under the bed because they don't want

to feel the guilt of having read them aloud directly.
All eight pages. One for each slipperly sliding eyeball.

One for each slippery
sliding perspective.

The hairs on your toes help you to scramble and dance
(like the ballerina the little girls dreamed to be during the daytime)
upwards on the paper,
upwards after supping on your mate.
After your slippery tea.

I quickly shut you, small legs and ex-mate and all, in your book
with my

un
clever fingers.

I like this. There's just a few things I have a problem with.

Sub
human,

my beautiful black widow.

To me, this break kinda destroys the flow you had going and I don't understand it. It's artist's perogative, of course, but it just doesn't make much sense to me. There's another one later that breaks the flow again just as you got it re-established. I like the idea of the poem itself, though.