that monster

that hides

in a deep dark closet

comes out, to say “hi” to me

time and time, again

he wants to be my friend

but I don’t want to


eventually, he keeps to himself

like one of those coats, hanging himself

in a deep dark room

gasping for air—

and I’m the only one who can give him life

but I don’t care

I want him to die.

He whispers to me, across the room, at midnight

“Please, let me be your friend,”

but I pretend

he’s not there.

“Come on, I’ll make you feel good—remember when we used to hang-out?”

I remember…

I wish

I didn’t.

He used to tell me, nobody would be my friend, except him—

that he was good, but with a bad reputation,

and chronically misunderstood.

One day, I realized

he was lying to me

and it was all I could do, to avoid him.

He was like a puppy

who wouldn’t leave me alone,

licking my hands,

and when I didn’t pat his head

he bit me.

I didn’t know, he was a dangerous dog

because I made friends with him, years ago.

It turns out

all he wanted

was my blood.

I called him, yesterday

and he bit me, again.

I kicked that dog

into my deep dark closet




calling his name


4 thoughts on “Never Call His Name, Again

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