eyes roll and she clutches her
arm, something that refused
to die coming to life inside of her
pushing past her mind until
it becomes her--all of her. and
now, with her ghastly face, and
primal wordless sounds, you
now start to take her seriously
the way you should have from the
beginning.
she shuffles towards you, and
your worst nightmare has
arrived. you're pleading for
your life first before you beg
for her eyes to fixate on anyone,
anything but you. you don't
see the upturned corner of the faded
Persian rug and you fall backwards, landing
hard on your hips and the palms
of your hands. is this the first time
your own blood has been drawn?
how inconvenient for you--if only
you had fallen sooner, maybe this
wouldn't have to had happen.
she is a shadow of herself and
the last thing you're going to see.
what a shame, what a pity.
what a sad, sad way to go.
and in your cowering fear, back
hitting the wall with no more
floorboard to crawl away on, you
shield your face with your arm.
and if you had, for just a moment,
held your breathe and listened,
you would've heard her sigh, a
fleeting moment where she came
back to herself, and to her rightful
senses, and had you just looked at
that moment, she would have let
it be enough for you to save her from
herself, and thus save your own self.
but you didn't, and she's so sad as
her eyes roll and she clutches her
arm, something that refused
to die coming to life inside of her
pushing past her mind until
it becomes her--all of her.
YOU ARE READING
OF SANITY AND MOODS AND SUCH
PoetryWelcome ghosts and mischievous tricksters. In this season of delightful spooks and devious treats, this mini poetry chapbook explores frightful fears and possession like it's a horror film, but outside, the autumn leaves fall down, and you're wrappe...
