deepundergroundpoetry.com
Calling on Gods I Don’t Believe In
my sleep paralysis demon
is an asshole
poised at the edge
of my bed,
ready to catch me
unaware,
in the space between
dead and alive;
we’ve been playing
this cat-and-mouse game
for three decades now;
we met when I was sixteen,
and like most of my choices
in the opposite sex,
I used all his red flags
to make my own bindings
he’s the hunter
watching his prey
from afar, waiting
for the perfect shot;
he enjoys the sport,
dreaming of my head
mounted on his wall
in the empty space
where he already has
my name engraved;
traditional in his proclivity,
it makes him downright giddy
when I struggle
against my restraints;
fear mixed with a generous
dollop of loathing
makes the meat sweeter,
and he’s always hungry
my mind rouses
to consciousness,
but my body
is made of stone;
wickedly gleeful
in his whispered tales
of death and destruction
and everything
I’m most afraid of;
his single voice
made of thousands
reaches ears
that can’t retreat,
and I often wonder
if he’s ever going
to get to the point
gooseflesh rises,
my skin stands
at full attention;
a cold sweat breaks
across my brow;
my futile attempts
at moving are thwarted
by limbs dried
in cement;
calling on gods
I don’t believe in,
he feeds on my terror
while I scream silently
from my useless mouth
is an asshole
poised at the edge
of my bed,
ready to catch me
unaware,
in the space between
dead and alive;
we’ve been playing
this cat-and-mouse game
for three decades now;
we met when I was sixteen,
and like most of my choices
in the opposite sex,
I used all his red flags
to make my own bindings
he’s the hunter
watching his prey
from afar, waiting
for the perfect shot;
he enjoys the sport,
dreaming of my head
mounted on his wall
in the empty space
where he already has
my name engraved;
traditional in his proclivity,
it makes him downright giddy
when I struggle
against my restraints;
fear mixed with a generous
dollop of loathing
makes the meat sweeter,
and he’s always hungry
my mind rouses
to consciousness,
but my body
is made of stone;
wickedly gleeful
in his whispered tales
of death and destruction
and everything
I’m most afraid of;
his single voice
made of thousands
reaches ears
that can’t retreat,
and I often wonder
if he’s ever going
to get to the point
gooseflesh rises,
my skin stands
at full attention;
a cold sweat breaks
across my brow;
my futile attempts
at moving are thwarted
by limbs dried
in cement;
calling on gods
I don’t believe in,
he feeds on my terror
while I scream silently
from my useless mouth
Published 9th Apr 2020
Author's Note
9/30
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4
reading list entries 1
comments 6
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The author encourages honest critique.
9th Apr 2020 6:01pm
10th Apr 2020 3:36am
Gawd. Sleep paralysis is a nightmare! I did a blog series a year or so back which involved that type of research ( as well as shadow people ), and it was very frightening! You captured that perfectly here; that ending was powerful and reiterates just how powerless we are when under such circumstances.
10th Apr 2020 5:17pm
It is one of the worst kinds of panic I have ever experienced and something that, even if it only happens to you once, you never forget. Thank you for reading, Ahavati 💜
10th Apr 2020 5:25pm
Feels like a slow drown. Pit and the pendulum pacing to the menace creeping. Fucking tasty
21st Apr 2020 6:29am
