The Endless –
it creeps. Down the alley, down the hallway, down the curve of my back.

It listens.
It speaks not
of the weakness of my heart.
Yet it knows; more than I could
ever tell.

It holds my hand,
knuckles white,
and beckons me to hide while I can.
The blankets, the sheets, the starched curtains, the everywhere.
This desperation could not be
the work of a mere passing night.

The point of no return, it knows.
I could not reach it on my own.
I feel this cold twist in my stomach –
the knotted art of calmed rage.

And so The Endless –
it stands. At the foot of my bed, caressing me with the softest lullaby.
The song of rest says
I should not confess.
Be with me.
Be with me.