Power Cut

Power cut. I’m in darkness. No candles. No message to say that she got the letter. Steely cold eating into my toes. I’m tired, buried. Incased in a saggy, leathern womb sac gasping up the last drops of air.
I hide my emotions well on days when I can see the black dragon in the distance. His shape, like writhing ink in my wing mirror. But he’s not on top of me.
Like now.
One, gigantic claw; talons dig into the flesh of my back, threateningly. I hear him grind his teeth together, angrily. All the ugliness in my soul impregnated me with this demonic brood.
And he’s out now. He prowls the streets, picking his teeth with mysterious bones.
I’m hung in an ectoplasm of neurosis, the crackling tissue vacuum sealing my bloodshot eyes.
The curtains fall on another day. He blows smoke into my miserable cot.
And laughs.
I made him. I made him laugh.


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