You have lived too long under my bed. I said this a year ago, but you only moved to my closet,
and before that, the kitchen cupboards were heavy with your dust. I tried scraping you from the forks, but failed and ate finger food for weeks until you moved to the garden. Now I am tired of this knot in my back, and I am telling you to leave.

My child was eating dirt today—no, not you, my other child, but I thought of you. She shoved fistfuls into her mouth, gnashed it in her teeth until I saw the muddy smile ink across her face.

How can one burst of horror live on in the mundane? You’re in the paint on the walls and the clouds puffing past. I swear by the God I used to know that you are in everything, that you are everything.

I think of when dirt was shoved into my own mouth, maybe into yours too. I think of the mob
where I trampled others, and soon was trampled by those behind me.

I think of these things, but I can’t go on. I love you, but you need to leave.