POEM: It

The creature curled up next to my bed,

Tightly wrapped in cracking skin,

Sleeps with one eye open and waits

For the time of night

When we wrestle

 

I am a bag of bones.

Knuckles crack, I shiver.

The pillows are stones,

The white sheets crack like ice cold

Whispers catching breath

 

So I get out of bed, I stagger

Towards its warmth

Then we roll

And we roll

And we roll

 

Bright morning light makes it wither

With a low-pitched scream

As the first Delicate sunbeam kisses its

Distorted face

 

But then it reappears in the mirror

And leers back,

A cold gleam

In its eye.

It gently raises the razorblade

And tilts back my head.

 

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