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Drowsy, hungry, longing for the night
where I'm comfortable.
No one can see my body in the dark.
There seems to be some confusion:
You ended it, and yet you are the victim.
I am the villain, shielding my face, my identity.

When the church bells sound,
that's the gun shot that forces me to run,
to tell the truth,
to be horrible and blackened and small.
Such is the danger of denial,
and my fingers lose sensation from holding on so tightly.

Didn't I comfort you?
Didn't I hold you away from the rain?
Wasn't I beautiful?
No.

Looking at the end
of the tunnel, you aren't there, waiting.
You aren't there, feebly, clumsily
holding the torch, the candle, the whatever.
Instead, you're grasping onto a figure
of speech, of enlightenment, of anger
and I am left, the monster,
fumbling in the dark,
where it's comfortable.