Knitting Cobwebs

She’s beautiful, and her graceful, weighted movements vaguely remind you of a black widow preoccupied with spinning her web, hoping that, with a little seductiveness, she may capture her prize, tuck it away, and begin again. Watching, you shudder, inwardly pressing upon your mind the necessity to guard yourself from her, this temptress, aching to make you her own, and yet; privately you know already its much to late, for something highly symptomatic of love creeps slowly in, twisting its own heat, own desire in ropes across your heart. You chain yourself up for her, blindly putting faith in a prettily marked death wish.

You notice how her web, surely, much too soft for acts of murderous treason, is unlike that of any threat you’ve ever known. Stringy and fluffy, like clouds on a summer’s day, it communally moves with her swaying limbs, flowing delicately on the breeze, with an airy luster, and you notice that the fear, once holding you on defensive is melting away. She is, after all, knitting cobwebs instead of deathtraps, so there must be nothing to fear.

Her eyes engage yours, and you note the fire within them, recklessly wondering subconsciously if she’s aware of sending such smoldering vibes between you, if she, like you, is falling just a bit too hard. She begins to back slowly from you, and you follow, helplessly stuck by her charm, the scenery beginning to pitch and twirl violently on the horizon, as your weakened heart palpitates much too fast, you’re dying, and you don’t have the strength to disagree.

Horror struck, you find yourself, first one foot, and then two, treading upon the stickiness of her lair, her cobwebs, now keeping you hostage. She’d lead you, marched your into danger with the premise of love, and yet, as she smirks with those heartbreakingly beautiful lips, you grapple with what is undoubtedly sadness within her dark orbs. You laugh a little, out of ridiculousness, because as death is coming, all you can breathe is your pity on her. You half hope it’ll suffocate you, yet do not entertain hope, for you know, she’d let no one, dead or living, rob her of her twisted pleasure.

You struggle, uselessly out of habit as she watches in amusement, and you know the end is coming. You pray a little mantra, and try not to let yourself fear the coming darkness, the emptiness, that you know she’s about to plunge you into. She saunters gracefully, always gracefully to your side, moving sweepingly over the void between you, all the while, keeping her striking eyes locked upon yours. Whispering death and symphonies in your ear, she kisses you deep and you feel your body relax, immobilized against her touch. Maybe it’s not the way you always imagined love being, maybe it’s not the norm, and granted; your moments from death, but you’d be a fool to think that, given the choice, you’d ever do things differently. You also know, that some part of the vixen before you is just as captivated by you as you are by her, its why she’s chosen to kill you.

Beauty must never be challenged.

And so she kisses on, stripping you of everything you hold dear in the same instant, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to protest, for you, you are consumed.