I find his face in the darkness,

I hear his steps creep on stone,

next my smile blurs in the papers

with his knife burrowed in my bone,

and I see fists in his pockets,

paired with a crowbar in his coat –

a rustle in the bushes

and his fingers close on my throat,

and if his van rumbles to a slow,

my life reel starts to play;

he rings the doorbell past sundown

and to any god I pray;

I walk down an alley

and my shoes stick to bloody brick;

I answer his call for help

and I’ve just fallen for his trick;

I memorise his face

so I can point him out in line

but I shudder at his gaze,

so I’ve never met his eyes –

I think that if I did,

they would glisten with The Missing –

“room for one more”,

a promise he doesn’t stop hissing when

I stroll by his house that wreaks of bodies buried under floorboards and when

his car puffs past full of his women behind locked doors so

how will it happen and

where will it be –

the outside drags with this quiz

because when will he stop and

when will he learn?

to not take what is not his.

Image courtesy of Morica Pham.