A Tango would make a Gordian knot of me, and I’ve no need for romance. I take what comes to me, and suck it dry while the collection of husks piles high beneath me. I can make a feast last a week, with the right bite and a little silk to tuck it in, the slowest beating keeps your meat fresh for me. I’ve got eyes on the back of my head and you don’t want to mess with my mandibles. The ichor inside me, greenish and thick, requires constant replenishment. Yeah, I’ve spun a summer place behind an ice cream counter and I've seen you sip through straws. Try and tell me you thought that up on your own. Some arachnophile sat, inspired, watching me sup. And pulled the long straw, like so many jerks since. Tell me I haven’t inspired you for ages. You’re still trying to fix that formula but my strength is a secret, a secret fear— you’re not even aware of it until you feel me creeping. Don’t worry; I don’t like to touch you either. So dance around, flailing at the air when my lines stick. I'd like to be left to my own devices, hanging by a thread.