by Io
There’s something in my room.
It lurks at the edge of my bed,
between an endless dream and a nightlight.
I know, It is parched,
For the lapping of Its tongue,
yearns for the youth inside me.
It is the monster that lives under my bed.
Its breath hangs heavy, still, in the air.
Droplets cling to a shattered mirror,
As memories slowly trickle down the sink.
Swirling and spiraling,
Down into the abyss.
It calls for me,
Just a sip. Just a taste.
Tempting me,
Its gnarled teeth, Its widening grin.
I offer my chalice with a trembling hand.
Water spills down the sides,
Metal turns to rust.
Just a taste.
Somewhere in the dark,
Its hand holds mine.
Cold and firm,
Calloused and rough,
Like rain on asphalt.
It slips through my fingers
and splatters in puddles around me.
Warm ink seeping into the cracks in the floor,
into my bones.
Somewhere in the dark,
eyes watch me sleep,
as something drinks.
A thirst so deep,
even the oceans will, one day,
run dry.