Its times like these that I feel

like we’re in a horror movie,

darting through the hallways

of our own home, the sound

of a chainsaw whirring behind us.

 

Last night we were huddled together

in the corner of our bedroom during

a thunder storm, a dresser dragged

in front of the door, my palm slapping

the side of a flashlight as it flickered out.

 

This morning he was in the room

with us again, you were yanking and

pulling on the window that wouldn’t open,

I was grabbing the lamp next to me,

turning whatever I could into a weapon.

 

And now, in the scramble and fight

between us all, his mask has been torn off,

he is not the madman from the highway

chasing after a random prey

to quench his never ending lust for violence.

 

We are not burdened by a tragedy

from the world’s endless vault

of fate and chance, leaving us shaking

our fists at a god we cannot

understand, cannot even believe in.

 

It is a monster that I created years ago,

the one we convinced ourselves was not

growing in our basement, its grumblings

you could hear at night, and me, turning

on my side, telling you ‘it’s nothing’.

 

Now he is out, and the weight

of him on my back is crushing me

and I am begging you to pull him off of me,

take whatever object you can find

and hit him over the head with it,

 

and when I am free and he goes after you,

knocking you down with one blow,

dropping to his knees to strangle you,

I will jump on his back

until you are out from under him,

 

and we will fight him into submission,

send him limping in tattered clothing

out the door, fleeing into the shadows

of the past, leaving just you and me, alone,

in this room we have furnished together.