There are certain things

that keep me up in the dead of
night, a notion that the creak in my
closet may be otherworldly, or that
the squeak under my bed was not
caused by old bedsprings but rather
by the scuffle of a demon who was
simply waiting for a chance to feed.

Prey, might I be one when I wait in
the dead of night for such unholy things
to spring out of me. Hope, might I be
able to scream to my parents in remorse
of my ruinous decisions. It wasn’t
my fault, I whispered into the black
choking atmosphere,

but guilt was the monster,
and when I stared into the stars
in the cracks between my blinds through
broken windows, I felt for the
cold metallic touch of the gun
and with one last glance
underneath the bed
I pulled the trigger.