Do not kill the spider
Do not kill the spider,
I say. It has to die,
you say, as you crush it
with tissue paper
like it’s nothing more
than a smudge of sauce
on a counter. A life
Wiped away so easily.
I wonder why
we find it so easy
to kill the things
that repulse us.
Why we can say
yes, kill the spider.
But spare the butterfly,
the bee, the ladybird
and all things
outwardly beautiful
in this world.
Yet we condemn
the cockroach, the fly,
the wasp, the slug.
And for what reason?
Is because of the centipede
moves so rhythmically
across a leaf? Are we scared
by the ant’s careful strength?
We are repulsed, revolted
by what we cannot
understand. Our first
reaction is to kill,
the crush, to torment.
But the snail making
slow progress across
the garden, leaving
a trail of glistening
slime, like the tail
of a comet, does not
know it is disgusting.
It only knows it is
alive and wishes to
remain that way. Why
else would woodlice
curl up in balls if not to
hide from us? To
know our cruel intentions
on some level and fear us?
Every creature has a
will and right to live,
just as I do. And as
with the spider and
the cockroach and
the fly, I have known
revulsion. I have had
people scowl and
whisper about my
very existence, as if I
was nothing. A warped,
ugly, subhuman thing—
undeserving of love.
I know how it feels
to just want to be
left alone, to exist
with no strings attached.
So I do not kill the spider.
I place a cup over it,
slide the paper beneath,
and carry it outside.
I hope one day
if I am sick or weak
or at the mercy of
strangers
someone will return the favour.
Sarah Loverock is a writer and poet from England. She holds a BA from the University of Derby and is currently studying towards her Master's degree, both in Creative Writing. She has been previously published in Streetcake, ang(st) zine, and Pussy Magic. She is available on Twitter @asoftblueending.
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