my body already knows
that not-light lies behind
door handles that are cold
to the touch,
skin is not stupid.

the door swings open,
the crescendo of blood pumping
in my ears
screams to a stop.
there is quiet, but no peace -
there is silence, but no comfort.

wiry arms made of nothing
reach out,
hidden,
yet so clearly visible -
dancing around my ankles,
measuring my shoulders,
wrapping themselves around
the air that i
so sparingly
exhale.

there are eyes watching me,
their sight made sharper
by the absence of light,
finding shards of black
along which they trace their way
to me.

my skin revolts,
but my limbs aren't mine anymore.
my eyes are wide,
but my brain cannot see anymore.

the dark isn't a state or a condition -
it lives and breathes,
hunts and hounds,
it has fingers and a mind of its own,
it rests in shadows,
but also makes a home of its own.

people aren't afraid of the dark
for no reason -
they only fear
that it may just be more human
than they are.