The night fades into me
or perhaps it’s the other way around,
but it makes no difference

because I always end up here,
on the other side of sunshine
between the hush of four walls
with scorched palms
and black feathers
in clenched fists.

I always end up here,
in the red room
with amber glow and body dust
where the nightmare never screams
and the worry whispers terror so loud
it makes the morning seem so far away.

I always end up here,
with nostrils caked in soot and ash
where it stinks of singed hair
and burnt skin folding in on memories;
where the door is ajar
and my eyes are glued shut.

The things that wander in.