We are the things that get swept under
rugs. A ***** mass that the world strives to keep
hidden. Flecks of skin and strands of hair. Toe nails. Trapped
in the carpet with the bodies of the bugs
of which we have been bitten.

Gaze not upon our swollen parts;
inflamed. Your eyes will entice us to spread
rashes. The forbidden always in our thoughts
like stubborn mattress stains.

We are the things that live in closed
closets. Tearing at the threads meant to keep you
sheathed. Disembodied torsos on wiry hooks. Scarves. Chewing
holes through the garments with worn-out teeth.

Chills will let you know we're near
as you toss and turn in bed. We are the shadows that
watch you while you sleep. Our goal is to fill you with fear.
Your soul is ours to reap.