She Loves To Hunt Me

Sometimes she's quiet.
A soft whisper or
a tap on the window
easily ignored and brushed aside.
She can be a lacy curtain fluttering in a slight breeze,
going unheeded as
the storm blows in.

She can be violent.
Thrashing against the walls,
tearing down everything I thought I knew.
Screaming till shes white-blue in the face,
all I cannot have nor want.

She's my doubting, angry companion.
Never leaving my side,
her eyes wide, wet and yellow,
like a lion
watching for signs of weakness,
ready to pick me out of the herd,
ready to pounce on my
vulnerability.
Sink her teeth into what's left of me.
Bones, toxins, tears
she craves it all.
She waits for me in the dark
as I sweat about all the ways she could kill me in my sleep.
Shiver.

No matter what mirror I look into
she is beside me.
No matter how loud I scream
she laughs bitterly,
and I hear her.
No matter how long I live
she will not leave me.

I love her, madness and all
for who am I without her?
Her soft growls keep me awake,
keep me from sinking into that sloth
of false security.
Her presense comforts in times of fear,
rejection,
no one can hurt me as much as she does.


And if I run from her,
it will be hell
when she finds me
once more.