so.
we’re sitting around a campfire,
as close as we can get.
the heat tightens our skin and the light reflects off our faces.
we’re orange in front, and black in back.
light and dark,
fire and night.
the fire keeps the night back.
for now.

for now,
we enjoy the light,
and ignore the dark
pressing in at our backs.
we’re warm;
we don’t need to think of the night terrors the dark brings.
we blanket our minds in thick and purposeful oblivion,
pushing negativity to the side.
we talk, and laugh, and the hours pass.
our chatter slows as the dark intensifies and starts eating through our protective blanket.
we shiver, and press even closer to the coals.

we begin to quietly share what shape the darkness takes for us.
abandonment, like a cemetery shrouded in mist.
the red of pain, bloody, dripping.
disappointment, gaunt, gray and flat.
having to push through another day.
the feeling of chest-seizing, body-thrashing panic.
death.
even the darkness itself.

then, faster than the flick of a light switch,
the darkness rushes in.
the coals are doused, and we go still.
we don’t scream.
the fear we feel is deeper
than anything a mere sound can express.
our hearts are in our throats,
pounding fast and heavy.
we can hear each other’s too-fast breathing.

the darkness has wrapped itself around us,
whispering lies into our ears, seeping into our mouths and poisoning our tongues.
we want the warmth and light of the fire,
we wish for it with all our being, but it doesn’t appear.
we have to do more than wish.
we have to lash out at the darkness,
tell it it’s wrong,
fight to get back to each other and the light.

once we do that, we’ll be stronger.
we’ll sit,
arms around each other’s shoulders,
and be proud.
proud that we fought the dark,
fought our own personal dark.
proud that we made it back to the fireside.