Stop.
Don't breathe.
Don't think.
He might hear you.
I am pressed against the wall. My fingers are spread as wide as they will go as my palms press heavily on the drywall. I take a deep breath. Hold it tight. I feel the air escaping my lungs, my circulation; my blood thinning of oxygen as I hold, one, two, three .
I hear Him slither down the hallway. His movements are languid, snake like, as He comes after me. I can imagine it all in my head: the long, thin arms, coiling around every turn and corner, searching for me. Have you ever noticed His face? His eyesor lack thereof? I have a theory. He doesn't have eyes because
i am a magenta february. by DearPoetry, literature
Literature
i am a magenta february.
Winter
is still clinging
to my skin,
with Autumn
sleeping within the tangles
of my night witch hair.
65 days to learn
how to
fall,
& Icarus, with his
sun kissed fingers
wrapped around
my throat, giggles
knowingly in my ear.
I have misplaced my
reckless disaster
of a heart
so many times,
I’m not even sure
it ever existed
at all.
But knuckles,
they never lie-
pressed flowers,
lipstick stained
against my
uprooted spine.
Covered in frost
& silence
I am a magenta
February-
the imprint of teeth
that bruised centuries
between me
& bed sheets.