Take From Me

In the low hum of my home, I hear footsteps.

I watch the crack of my door for roaches and crickets.

I stare at the dark parts of the house when I move past them. I dare figures to appear.

This creeping thing resting over my home is a part of me, and it is a part with nerves that hurt to touch. Its exorcism is coming with the death of the sun, but the nights until then belong to it.

I check my garage before I sing indoors.

I peek under the mattress when I can reach it.

I wonder at my humidifier – if I should have it so close and set so high when I sleep. My cough reminds me of other lost shackles.

This gangrenous body of mine, which I love, has breathed its last. I forgive it, though it has failed me one last time. The pain of its removal will be unbearable. The cleaving of its rotten mass off from the soul below will be the final act of its own fingers.

When the skin of my face is gone, the dark spaces will fear my gaze.

When the last of my blood is vomited up, and only foam remains, then I will pay insects no mind.

Take from me, you hanging dread.

Take from me what is yours.

When I have nothing left, the sun will be low, indeed.

And still I will be myself.