I lay in the heat, head circled by writing spiders.
Their webs are a crown. The blood pools in my face.
I’ve torn down their artistry until they have built homes
in less obtrusive places. The peace has settled here.
I am queen of what small worlds I can white-knuckle.
In control of all things, I bite the scabs on my fingers
so they grow back smoother. I don’t get bored of trying.
I hang the flowers in the closet to dry when the stems snap
from the weight of their beauty. I don’t accept them dying. 
I am religious about killing the aphids. I lock the doors at night.
Rules and rules I keep. I only clean the mess that’s mine. 
There is still so much to clean. I tried hard to consolidate
myself, live in isolation to feel the silence rise around me,
to hear myself think again. So I shut down my escape routes.
The mail came and piled in the foyer and I built a castle from it.
Now I forget what others want from me. But I can be generous.
I let the mosquitos feast on my blood because they are small
and I try to be merciful and benevolent. After all I know well
what it feels like to be hungry. The sting will pass soon.
I peel off a second skin of dried Benadryl gel, born again,
and fantasize about the shivering of my heart, dream
the disequilibrium will ease. I will force all things to balance.
It will all be right soon. The sun will cool off enough to let me rest,
cocoon and resurrect, and be untouchable when the shut
door to the closet opens. The flowers will be perfectly preserved.