A Tap on My Shoulder
I hear it at night, in the distance, it calls to me,
A tapping, a rapping-scrapping of bone, metal, and flesh,
Nothing could. Nothing should. Make that noise.
I roll back my duvet. As I ease my toe down to the naked wooden floor.
Something moves behind the door and from down the drafty hall.
Should I look or leave it be? I ask myself as it edges near.
I close my eyes. The door opens.
It hurts to, but if I look away it won’t be real,
But I have to, so that it won’t be real.
I hear a noise unbearable, inaudible, clawing at my ears,
Did it speak?
Did it make those noises?
I can feel it, low in my breast,
It cannot speak.
For it has no head.
Did it hurt me?
That cannot be, for it to has no limbs, not a finger, nor a nail to rend,
But then, why is my blood, painted along the lofty vacant walls,
My white nightgown, a bloody shredded mess,
Splayed against a rotting, burnt, wooden floor.
Where am I now?
But in the fading light of my mind I see,
My head is in a glass case,
Set upon a shield adore am I,
Among many trophies of my kind,
Am I really a trophy now?
Madness. Nonsense. Preposterous.
Light fading, limbless, speechless.