It

when one is dead." I swallowed all the pills prescribed, agonizing how to hide
when It knew to look, and
running was doomed since It owned my stride.
I turned my home into a trap; beneath my bed I slept, and did the opposite of
what I’d do, and lived,
instead, a stranger. Oh, years did pass, how I grew old, and wisdom made this
true: I knew I’d sold the
good in me for time. I wonder, would It say the same? Having spent the bulk of
years spoiling joy with
fear, I wished—almost—It would come at last. When quite by chance I spied It.
Unaware, It laughed beside a family of its own. How strange this felt,
to barely recognize me in that way:
so content.