Sometimes I feel it clawing at the nape of my neck. It grasps it's long, witchlike nails out at me, digging into my skin, piercing through my throat. It diminishes my ability to speak, and leaves with nothing but the constant pressure of its hold.
This monster is unlike anything I've ever experienced.
It's one that has the ability to ruin me. One that has the ability to make me tremble. To make me rot. To make me a waking corpse.
This monster doesn't have a name.
It's one that has always been looming over my shoulder, holding its arms out for me, even when I didn't realize. But now, it stands in front of me, trapping me in every way. It towers over me, casting a persistent shadow over my figure. I should fear it. Yet I don't.
This monster is my death.
YOU ARE READING
Words of Midnights and Moonlit Murmurs
Poetryall my thoughts, bleeding into these pages, enjoy. a collection of poems by H.W. Elizabeth.
