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June 17, 2011

I don’t care about darkness.

The monsters it houses don’t scare me.

The caverns and hallways I traverse to move about in darkness

mean nothing to me; just another way to get from here to there.

I don’t mind bumps in the night,

screech owls and coyotes and

tree limbs scratching against my windowpane.

I am more afraid of the darkness in my own head, my own soul.

The darkness that makes me doubt,

that brings fear where no fear should be;

that wakes me, clammy hands and panicky breathing, thrashing from side to side

“what? where am I? oh, ok. It’s ok.”

It’s the darkness in my dreams

that I can’t quite shake

even in the bright sunshine of midday

that frightens me,

It’s the lonliness in giving up, giving in, walking away,

denying the obvious truth

that haunts me.

It’s wondering if what they say about me, and what I fear most about myself, is actually true

that puts me off darkness.

No, I don’t mind the ghosties and ghoulies,

I embrace the fireflies and the night jasmine and the

neighbors walking their dog one last time before bed.

I am not afraid of the quiet darkness

where snow falls

where headlights flash and cars speed past

where babies cry and whine

where lovers sleep, tangled in sheets and each other,

where shadows look like

deepest fears and darkest secrets.

No, it’s not the dark of day that scares me, I tell myself.


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