Towards the Twisted End

The window is open
and you dark devils,
you long fingered night terrors,
make your way across the floor
as the grey outline of the curtain
billows effortlessly.

Your teeth are sharp and ready
to tease out my faults.
Your tongues are split and muscular
weaving in and out,
they whisper secret shames
into the black recesses of the night.

So heavy is the room
with my darkness now
that I can feel it
on my fingertips
and on each eye
forcing the lid down soundly.

My heart beats gently,
as if not to distract,
as if it were in cahoots
but then, as if suspecting
that I am considering this conjecture,
begins a sudden haste
and rushes red
inside my chest
a loathsome taste.

Slowly it seeps out of me,
as if my skin were to weep
of its own accord.
Each bead is cold and brackish
and reeks of a distinct but
unexplainable fear.

And as the pitch piles high
around my uneasy bed
like walls of brittle
death-black fear and dread
I lie back and await
nights end or
mine own at last.