I wish darkness could comfort.
That the cloak the moon lays
over the sky could reach around me
in warm embrace, that the stars could
twinkle and tell me stories behind the eyes
that have gazed upon their forms, wondered
at the infinite-ness of what they hold,
can ever hold.
Why can’t the shadows bring joy,
sitting at the end of my bed, reading me
fond memories, smiling and laughing
along with the characters?
 
What is it that turned nights so cold?
The eyes have turned to stone, and
I always shake under their stare.
It doesn't read me the memories,
it jeers and spits them at my face,
warping them until they’re hardly
memories at all. What ifs gone wrong.
Croaks when it should be singing
a lullaby and
watches from the other side of the room
instead of holding me close,
keeping me warm.
Why does it rip me apart?
It should be piecing me together.
 
Why do I have to fear the dark?