Clare
Proctor

You are not the delicate nightmare I carry to the point of fear

                                                                                              and wake from.

Your arms are heavy on my shoulders, obscene piggy on my back.

I bear your bestial weight like I would a weekly shop, wood for the fire,

                                                                                    a childhood memory.

Your quick sharp heel is a spur; your breath, a fiery draught on my neck.

I sense you whispering, but your words are lost to the wind.

It doesn’t matter. Every day you say the same. Every day you

say the same.

I cling onto your ankles – the sick baby I birthed in the night of terror.

You turned me inside out. The streets were thick, the shadows had eyes

and all of them were the same. You asked me to stay with you

and I said Yes. Your howl was a bridge.

Your howl could bear the weight of us if we chose to cross it

from this world to the next.

Nights are cold. We snuggle close, I tell you how we came to meet.

I’m tired of telling the same story, over and over, but it soothes you.

You curl up, close your snake-like eyes, your crown-like crest glittering

                                                                                                    under stars.

Your sinewy skin glows. I think I love you, Demon.

When you wake the sky will be pale. You will shatter the ice.

Routine is comforting, though safety is a kind of emptiness, emptiness

                                                                                            a kind of dread.

The miasma of the world is seeping through the cracks.

I paint over it, pretend I am good, that nobody will know any different,

but the scent sticks under my nails.

Shh you say, holding my fingers to my lips.

We are made of darkness. Isn’t everyone?