The Man That Stands at my Door

The night was dark,

But he was darker.

The room was cold,

But he was colder.

 

He simply stood at the door,

Black, impossibly

Black, sickeningly

Black with beady

Eyes like holes

Sunken into his face.

 

Any remnant of light-

The porch lights of the house across the street,

The stars,

The waning moonlight-

Were all absorbed into him

Where he diffused them, and rendered them

Mute.

 

He choked out the distant

Sound of the television from the night

Residing of my parents.

 

He stood still, and

I laid still.

Him transfixed, fascinated

by my human warmth.

Myself paralyzed by the stinging

Fangs of fear.

 

The doorway framed

His inky physique so

Twisted and shadowy.

 

The covers lay atop me as a

Flimsy shield as I laid still.

Impossibly still.

 

I knew he wouldn't be able to step in.

 

And yet I was still scared.

Scared of what he could do.

Scared of what I couldn't do.

This poem is about: 
Me

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