I walk along the tall grass.
Each step caressed by soft earth.
Under every shadow, a chill buzzes through me.
But there is somebody there, in the distance.
Watching me, following me. "Who are you?",
I call out, but hear no reply. Although somewhere
deep inside of me, I fear I already know who you are.
"You've come for me, finally." That is why I came.
I was face to face with
Death.
Taunting me, raping me. I always feel you when you're near.
Never close enough to touch,
Just close enough to remind me you're here.
Always an option.
You never fail to provide me with ideas,
Homicide, Suicide;—
—Which do I want?
YOU ARE READING
THE DARK: Inside the Dissociative Mind
Poetry𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔱 𝔰𝔭𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡. 𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢. • 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: could be triggering for some readers.
