It has been years since you last opened your
closet door unbothered
by the skeletons sulking inside
there is one in particular who sits on a throne
made of clothes you’re too scared to retrieve
he wears a crown
made of memories you wish you didn’t have
each time you grab your shoes, you’re greeted
with pieces of him you were too unversed
to understand
too young
and now you are too old to believe in monsters
but you still find yourself scrambling
out of the frame,
as if there’s one behind you
reaching to grip you with rough, rotting hands
and pull you in, force you to stay and soak
in the stench of your misfortunes.
But you’ll always make it out.
You’ll always slam the door tight behind you
and lock away the bones
banging hard on the wood and wailing
like ghouls.
That is, until the sun rises from its grave
and you’re awakened by the coercing clattering
of your hidden hell.