You thought someone was living
inside the walls, laughing at you. Staring
at you. Talking about you. You tore
at your face until craters bled. Kept
telling me something was hiding
underneath your skin, crawling with fleas.
When I woke up, found your side of the bed
empty/cold, I thought I would discover
your body still, blue like the pills you crush
into dust and breathe. Except I found
you very much alive — wild, sweating,
and wide-eyed like an animal rabies-bitten.
I looked at you and saw someone/thing
else, pupils so dilated the moon could pass
through them. I begged you to come
back. To come back down. To come
back to bed. To come back to me.
You howled at the night sky,
retreated further into the woods.
— ANDREA LAWLER
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