and even after it all,
he still came knocking.
"He came to collect," I say, harrowingly.
Their teeth -
pointed, jagged, rusted? -
clanged together, as he made his way down,
down
o
w
n
down, until finally, though tattered and torn, he came to me.
"I come to collect," he says through a gritted,
bloody
smile.
Prickling pins prance across my flesh
as bumps rise and blood flows through the veins
that were shot icicles through my body.
"He came to collect," I nodded, "Yet he didn't come knocking."
"And yet, here he is," their teeth - ragged and worn -
grin while their rotten, putrid hands
knocked once -
then twice -
And then, I woke up.
