there is a scratching
right outside my door
across the wooden frame
as i drift to sleep
i hear it growing

i lay still
holding my breath
hoping it goes away
hoping it is
a dream
over active imagination

it’s happened
three nights in a row
this constant noise
this horrible
raking of claws

i wake
to long lines of oak
on the carpet of the hall
it isn’t in my head
it is real
six inch coils of wood
growing deeper
and deeper

it’s only a matter of time
before whatever it is
through the door

i have a knife
beside the bed
over and again
throughout the night
i reach for it
taking comfort
in the heft
of the blade

sleep won’t come
not as long
as i know it will
the smell of sulphur
grows stronger
the growls louder
the scratching
like nails
across my glass spine

9 thoughts on “scratching

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