A phantom once traced my footsteps
with its own volant stride.
It's pale fingers pushed down it's throat.
Masquerader;
a beggar of callous rancor
hiding it's girth
under opaque robes.
Asphyxia derived
of lack for better words,
air treasured hope,
and I held in depression
twice.
This obsessed phantom plagued me,
it's hunger pains indulged my loathing.
It's birth as grotesque as lifeless children.
It called to everyone,
mourning my joy at every breath.
Perverse;
it hid in closets and grinned
as I would guilt lovers
into ominous slaves.
Hate strangled the faces on family portraits.
It wrote itself into my poetry,
engulfed my aptitude,
and spewed lethargy from its mouth.
I believe I created it.
Deranged sentinel
sculpted from leftover terror,
social anxiety,
and from a beating I can't remember.
I named it Concubine,
it held my hand
and we never looked back.
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