I squashed spiders, before I met you.
I lifted my hand to strike one day but you stopped me.
You reached for a cup, and scooped it in.
You carried it outside into the grass and I looked at you in such frustration,
like I’d just seen the stupidest, most pointless thing.
“It didn’t have to die,” you said to me,
and I was quiet.
I remember thinking later,
how soft you have managed to stay.
All the horrors that have set up shop in your life,
selling you nothing but cheap shots and venom,
yet I see no bitterness in you.
You make me want to be better.
I just thought you should know that.