Black Widow
A black widow in the passageway—
Not merely waiting, but curating silence,
thread by thread, she weaves a boundary
between intrusion and selfhood.
Silence is her power,
Steadiness her strength,
Firmness is her obsession,
Not merely stubbornness but a cure.
She holds her unhealed heart in a vacuum
and never fills it with venom.
Venom of passionate love that is not meant to stay.
Though she keeps peeping from the side eyes that want to catch a sight,
A gaze of wisdom,
Perhaps the wisdom of loss has taught her prevention.
Whilst the wisdom of preservation has taught her not to surrender—
To any situation,
That may involve a compromise of persona,
and that would belittle her entire personhood—once shattered.
She teaches her admirers and pupils how to remain calm under storms and
not to surrender to the horns of murky clouds.
One is illusion, the other is temporal,
Illusions of temporalities that might cause a sudden rise and fall.
The black widow in the passageway is always recalibrating—
Not out of indecision,
But as a ritual of preservation,
A refusal to be consumed by haste,
A quiet rebellion against the world
that demands she move first, speak first, yield first.
But never initiating—
because she knows the violence
hidden in beginnings that are not hers.
She has learned:
to initiate is to risk dilution,
to step forward is sometimes
to step outside the perimeter of the self.
She is stuck—
Not in weakness, but in deliberate stillness,
In nights darkened not by fear
but by a chosen withdrawal.
Her armored blazer is not for show.
It is a second skin.
Forged from betrayals, from near-losses,
From the slow erosion of being misread.
Cold nights don’t frighten her anymore—
She has studied their language.
Memorized the syntax of isolation,
Turned absence into sacred architecture.
She is friends with demons—
Not because she worships them,
But because she has named them,
Domesticated their chaos,
Allowed them to sit beside her
without surrendering her throne.
A black widow in her prime—
Not defined by venom,
But by precision, by restraint,
By the art of surviving without dissolving,
Without being influenced or deviated from her path.
She knows what she wants, so is she predetermined,
Her predetermination was rooted in the humongous obstructions that she had to remove,
She has uncovered the lid of peace and collected shattered pieces of her,
This time, she tells a story of empowerment.
Of strength, not out of neediness, or clinginess, or any sort of dependence.
She is sovereign in all forms - In her silence,
In her steadiness and in her preservation.
She cannot preserve what she has lost,
But she can protect what she has gained between cruel survivals.
She is the occurrence—
The moment something refuses to break,
The instant a self says, "I remain."
And she is the time—
Not linear, not borrowed,
But cyclical, self-owned,
A temporality that bends inward
to protect its own center.
She is the woman
who would rather be alone in her web
than entangled in a world
that mistakes access for intimacy.
She preserves her personhood
like a sacred text—
Untranslated, unedited,
Untouched by hands
that do not understand
the cost of its creation.
The cost of its rearing and appearance.
And so she waits—
Not for rescue,
Not for permission,
But for a presence that does not trespass,
For a touch that does not demand erasure.
Until then,
She remains—
Complete, contained,
Dangerous only to those
Who cannot bear
a woman who refuses
to be entered
before she is known.
Who doesn't understand her depth and can't swim in the deep waters of her layers and walls of secured and insecured thoughts!
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