You fold into all the dresses and robes
hung like old skins
gaze oozing from the cracks in the armoire.
All the skeletons playing post-mortem in imaginary worlds
hide-and-seek with curl-toed children shrinking into their sheets
listening to the bone clatter in the closet
while their weary-eyed mothers
promise it’s just a fear of the dark, nothing
behind the pearly wood of that upright coffin.
And when the door clicks, the panels shift,
wallpaper peels away like an old scab, and you
slither across the bedroom floor, one shadow
at a time till your tongue is in my ear
slimy whisper licking across my cortex
till my eyes roll back in my head
I am your paramour.
Best make room
underneath that sweat-soaked blanket.