Where The Shadows Had Names
I don't fear nightmares anymore.
Reality replaced them too well.
The creatures under the bed just wanted to play.
And whispers in the dark were just the house settling.
My figure at the end of the hall was just a trick of the light.
Now, the monsters have faces.
They have names I used to whisper with love.
They have hands that once held mine,
now balled into fists.
The silence I once dreaded is a mercy I beg for,
a brief respite from the screaming.
I used to jolt awake, heart pounding,
drenched in a cold sweat, grateful for the dawn.
Now, I open my eyes to a weight on my chest that never lift.
The nightmare isn't something I escape;
it's something I put coffee on for.
It is my cold side of the bed.
It's the final, unopened letter.
It's the reflection in the mirror that looks back at me with eyes that have seen too much and felt too little.
My subconsciousness couldn't compete with the headlines.
And my imaginations couldn't conjure a cruelty sharp enough to match the memories.
I don't fear nightmares anymore.
I fear the mornings.
I fear the quiet.
I fear the proof that the most terrifying thing in the world wasn't a dream at all.
It was just... Me—WELLS.
W